William Shakespeare 🪶 Mystery Cache

Profitless usurer, why dost thou use

And being frank, she lends to those are free.

Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,

So thou through windows of thine age shalt see.

For never-resting time leads summer on

A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted

Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;

The gracious light lifts up his burning head

That thou no form of thee hast left behind,

Nature’s bequest gives nothing but doth lend,

Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time,

But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end.

         Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,

        As with your shadow I with these did play.

― William Shakespeare

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