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.
SONNET #2
by: William Shakespeare