by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
      Y glass shall not persuade me I am old
      So long as youth and thou are of one date;
      But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
      Then look I death my days should expiate.
      For all that beauty that doth cover thee
      Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
      Which in they breast doth live, as thine in me:
      How can I then be elder than thou art?
      O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
      As I, not for myself, but for thee will,
      Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
      As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
      Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
      Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.