Sonnet 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 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 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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