Sonnet II
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When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, | 1
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, | 2
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, | 3
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: | 4
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, | 5
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, | 6
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, | 7
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise. | 8
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, | 9
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine | 10
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,' | 11
Proving his beauty by succession thine! | 12
This were to be new made when thou art old, | 13
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. | 14
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