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 unear'd 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,

remember'd not to be,

Die single

and thine image

dies with thee.