From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beautys rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contacted to thine own bright eyes, Feedst thy lights flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the worlds fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the worlds due, by the grave and thee. Shakespeare When forty winters shall besiege thy brow And dig deep thenches in thy beautys field, Thy youths proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatterd weed, of small worth held: Then being askd 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. How much more praise deserved thy beautys use, 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 feelst it cold. Shakespeare 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.
Posted on: Thu, 25 Dec 2014 12:03:19 +0000
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