Whan forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenchesin thy beauty's field,
thy youths proud livery, so gazed on now,
will be totters 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 eyes,
were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise 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 it cold.
from fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's Rose might die,
But ae the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feedst thy lights flam wit self-substantial fuel,,
making a famine where abundance lies,
Thselfthy foe , to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the worlds fresh ornament,
and olny herald to the gaudy spring,
within thing own bud buriest thy content,
and, tender churl , makest waste in niggarding.
pity the world, or else this glutton be,
to eat the worlds due, by the grave and thee
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