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mezquinas el vigor de tu capullo

y al no gastar derrochas tus reservas:

apiádate y no dejes que tu gula

se parta el pan del mundo con la tumba.

II

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,

Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,

Will be a tattered weed, of small worth held.

Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,

Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,

To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes

Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.

How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use

If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mine

Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse’,

Proving his beauty by succession thine.

This were to be new made when thou art old,

And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.

II

Cuando un asedio de cuarenta inviernos

te surque el bello prado de trincheras,

tu atuendo, que ahora es ostentoso y nuevo,

será un guiñapo que ya no interesa.

Y cuando te pregunten dónde yace

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