Sonnet 2. When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field

Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now

Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:

Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies

Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;

To say within thine own deep sunken eyes

Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.