Sonnet 3
Look in the 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 shall 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 thy age shall see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live remembered not to be,
Die single and thy image dies with thee.