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 unear'd 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 ******s of thine age shalt see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live remember'd not to be
Die single and thine image dies with thee
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