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 furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate. 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 wary As I, not for myself, but for thee will, Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.     Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,     Thou gav’st me thine not to give back again.