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