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 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 windows of thine age shall 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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