| 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 tatter'd weed, of small worth held: |
| Then being ask'd 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. |
This explains in part why parents rejoice in their offspring and why we are so happy for our new-parent friends. We think of our loved ones, who, like us, are showing signs of life's wear and tear, and then look at their sons and daughters (the 'treasure of [their] lusty days') and say, 'how cute!' In a very real sense, since cell replaces cell all down our ancestral line, procreation ensures that our 'eternal summer shall not fade'.
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