When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

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
How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s 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 feel’st it cold