Back перевод пер. С. Маршака, Шекспира, с. 2

When all your face is ploughed deep
By traces of your forty winters,
Who'd recollect your old image, been
In the regal cloths, changed into rigid.

There's no question, where the remnants lie
Of old beauty, or where they do live.
What will you say? In bottom of your eyes?
With mockery your answer will be filled.

The better are such words: "Look at my children.
My old freshness still is living in them.
And only in them I see the base and reason
For my old age, which is with me today.

And let your blood, which's going cold by time,
Will fire in the blood of your young heir.