part of Sonnet LXII. and Sonnet LXIII. are as follows:

But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
_Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity_,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
'T is thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
Painting _my age with_ beauty of thy days.

Against my love shall be, _as I am now_,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn;
_When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles_; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to _age's steepy night_,
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.

It should be noted that the poet is picturing no morning cloud or
storm or eclipse; but his grief is that he has had his morning and his
noon and that he is now at "age's steepy night" _because his sun has
travelled so far in his life's course_. The Sonnet seems to be the
antithesis of Sonnet VII., quoted at page 22. The metaphor is the
same, comparing life to the daily journey of the sun. In each, the
poet views the _steep_ of the journey, the earlier and the later
hours of the day; and while he finds that his friend's age is
represented by the sun passing from the "steep-up" hill to the zenith,
with equal clearness and certainty he indicates that his age is
represented by its last and declining course, that _he_ has "travelled
on to _age's steepy night_." As clearly as words can say, the poet
states that he is on the sunset side of life and indicates that he is
well advanced toward its close.

Sonnet CXXXVIII. is as follows:

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, _though I know she lies_,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus _vainly_ thinking that she thinks me young,
_Although she knows my days are past the best_,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
_But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?_
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And _age in lo