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 uneared 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, remembered not to be,
Die single
and thine image dies with thee.
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário