My glass shall not persuade me I am old,So long as youth and thou are of one date,But when in thee time's furrows I behold,Then look I death my days should expiate.

For all that beauty that doth cover thee,Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me,How can I then be elder than thou art?

O therefore love be of thyself so wary,As I not for my self, but for thee will,Bearing thy heart which I will keep so charyAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.