Now is the time that face should forme an other,
Whose fresh repaire if now thow not renewest,
Thou doo'st beguile the world, unblessed some mother.
For where is she so faire whole uneared wombe
Distaines the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tombe
Of his selfe love to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mothers glasse and she in thee
Calls backe the lovely Aprill of her prime,
So thou through windowes of thine age shalt see,
Dispight of wrinkles this thy goulden time.
But if thou live remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
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