Sonnet 2

　　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 askt 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.

　　How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use，

　　If thou couldst answer，‘This flair