LOOK in thy glass, and tell the face thouviewest Now is the time that face should formanother, Whose fresh repair if now thou renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless somemother. For where is she so fair whose uneared 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 shaltsee, Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time. But if thou live rememb'red not to be, Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
这是莎士比亚的十四行诗的第三首