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.

S
o
n
n
e
t
III

W
O
R
L
D

L
in thy glass
O
and tell
O
the face
K
thou viewest

NOW

is
the
time
that
face
should
form
another

Whose
fresh

repair

if not thou not
renewest
Thou dost
beguile the
world
unbless
some mother
unear'd womb
For where is she so fair whose
Disdains
the tillage
of thy husbandry?
O
I
/* */