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)