Look in the glass and tell the face thou view-est
Now in the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou re-newest
Thou dost beguile the world, unblessed some mother,
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity,
Thou art the mother's glass, and she is in thee
Call back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time,
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single and thine images die with thee.
BY
(WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE)
