CDXXXVII. Shakespeare.

XII

When I do count the clock that tells the time,
and see the brave day sunk in hideous night,
when I behold the violet past prime,
and sables curis all silvered o´er with white:

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
which erst from heat did canopy the herd
and summer´s green all girded up in sheaves
borne on the bier with white and brislty beard:

Then of thy beauty do I question make
that thou among the waste of time must go,
since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,

And die as fast they see other grow,
and nothing´gisnt Time´s scythe con make defence
save breed to brave him, when he takes thee hence.

William Shakespeare - Sonnets.