By ; William Shakespeare

    • OOK in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
      Now is the time that face should form another,
      Whose fresh repair if now thou renewest,
      Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
      For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
      Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
      Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
      Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
      Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee
      Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
      So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
      Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
      But if thou live rememb’red not to be,
      Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

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