Shakespeare's Sonnets: When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

When forty winters shall besiege thy browAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,Thy youth's proud livery, so gaz'd on now,Will be a totter'd weed of small worth held:Then being askt where all thy beauty lies,Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,To say within thine own deep-sunken eyesWere an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's useIf thou could'st answer, "This fair child of mineShall 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 it cold.