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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 uneared 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 shalt see, Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time. But if thou live rememb'red not to be, Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy? Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend, And being frank she lends to those are free: Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse The bounteous largess given thee to give? Profitless usurer, why dost thou use So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? For having traffic with thyself alone, Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive: Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone, What cceptable audit canst thou leave? Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee, Which usd lives th'executor to be.