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