[00:04.00]When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,[00:08.00]And dig deep trenches in thy beautyts field,[00:12.00]Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,[00:15.00]Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:[00:19.00]Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,[00:23.00]Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,[00:26.00]To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,[00:30.00]Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.[00:34.00]How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,[00:38.00]If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine[00:42.00]Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,[00:47.00]Proving his beauty by succession thine.[00:53.00]This were to be new made when thou art old,[00:57.00]And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.