Look in
thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the
time that face should form another,
Whose
fresh repair if now thou not 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 remembered not to be,
Die single
and thine image dies with thee.
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