Look in thy glass and tell thy face thy viewest;
Now is the time thy face should form another.
Whose fresh repair if thou not renewest;
Thou dost beguile the world unblessed mother.
For where is she so fair whose uneared womb;
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 though through windows of thine age shalt see;
Despite wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live rememb'red not to be;
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
