Shakespeare Sunday: Sonnet Two

There is no man who is immune to age
and soon it shall rob your beauty from you
you'll wrinkle and brown as an old book's page
days you are proud of your face will be few

What will you say when people stop and stare?
When they ask you what happened to your looks?
When they spy once again your thinning hair?
Will you see yourself and curse what time took?

But yet! For your fairness there is still hope!
This beauty may live on through another...
Life must not only be a downhill slope
you may pass on your face... as a father!

As your beauty fades, your new child's shall thrive
and as it does so you shall feel alive

Original:

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,

And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,

Thy youth's proud livery, so glazed on now,

Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held;

Then being ask'd 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 fair child of mine

Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
     This were to be new made when thou art old
     And see thy blood warm when thou feelst it cold