by: William Shakespeare
      HEN forty winters shall besiege thy brow
      And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
      Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
      Will be a tottered weed of small worth held:
      Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,
      Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
      To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes
      Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
      How much more prasie deserved thy beauty's use
      If thou couldst answer, 'This fair child of mine
      Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
      Proving his beauty by succession thine.
      This were to be new made when thou art old
      And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st cold.