III.

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 doft beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is the fo fair whose unear'd womb
Difdains the tillage of thy husbandry?

Or who is he fo fond will be the tomb
Of his felf-love, to ftop pofterity?

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 fingle, and thine image dies with thee.

IV.

Unthrifty lovelinefs, why doft thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?

Nature's bequeft gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank, fhe lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why doft thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why doft thou use

So great a fum of fums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,

Thou of thyfelf thy sweet self doft deceive:
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canft thou leave?

Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

V.

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very fame
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-refting time leads fummer on

To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap check'd with froft, and lufty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'erfnow'd and bareness every where:

Then, were not fummer's distillation left,
A liquid prifoner pent in walls of glafs,

Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:

But flowers diftill'd, though they with winter meet, Leefe but their show; their substance still lives fweet.

VI.

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy fummer, ere thou be diftill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou fome place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.

That use is not forbidden ufury,

Which happies thofe that pay the willing loan
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;

Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee;

Then what could death do, if thou shouldft depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?

Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair

To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

VII.

Lo, in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing fight,
Serving with looks his facred majesty;
And having climb'd the fteep-up heavenly hill,
Refembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty ftill,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;

But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
Unlook'd on dieft, unless thou get a fon.