When forty winters have attacked your brow, and dug deep trenches in your beauty's skin, your youthful pride--in height of season now-- will shrivel to a weed to your chagrin. Then you, when asked where does your beauty lie, where is the treasure of your lusty days, can only say it's in your sunken eyes, where all-consuming pride will mask your shame. Your beauty could have been more honoured still, if you could answer, "This fair child of mine explains my age--for my life's fulfilled." And as your son, his looks will always shine. He will display his youth when you are old-- you'll see you blood still warm, though feel it cold.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616) 'Modern translation' by Prontobard 2023