XXII
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 furrows1 I behold2, Then look I death my days should expiate3. 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 wary4 As I, not for myself, but for thee will; Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary5 As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. Presume not on th;heart when mine is slain6, Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.