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Text of Willian Shakespeare (1564-1616)

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-sunknen eyes,

Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.

How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use

If thou  couldst answer, 'This fair chhild 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.