My glass
shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as
youth and thou are of one date,
But when
in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look
I death my days should expiate.
For all
that beauty that doth cover thee,
Is but the
seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in
thy breast doth live, as thine in me,
How can I
then be elder than thou art?
O
therefore love be of thyself so wary,
As I not
for my self, but for thee will,
Bearing
thy heart which I will keep so chary
As tender
nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume
not on thy heart when mine is slain,
Thou
gav'st me thine not to give back again.
No comments:
Post a Comment