When age hath made me what I am not now, br And every wrinkle tells me where the plow br Of time hath furrowed; when an ice shall flow br Through every vein, and all my head wear snow; br When death displays his coldness in my cheek, br And I myself in my own picture seek, br Not finding what I am, but what I was, br In doubt which to believe, this or my glass: br Yet though I alter, this remains the same br As it was drawn, retains the primitive frame br And first complexion; here will still be seen br Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin; br Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye, br The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye.