When forty winters shall besiege 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 tattered weed of small worth held. <br />Then being asked, 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-2-when-forty-winters-shall-besiege-thy-br/
