  When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tattered weed, of small worth held: Then being asked 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. 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. And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silvered o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves, Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard; Then, of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, And die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence, Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence. 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, How can I then be elder than thou art? O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary, As I not for myself 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. Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might. O let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast; Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed. O learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing coarse, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest; So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. William Shakespeare. |
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