Sonnet Iii

William Shakespeare

     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 shall 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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