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 sable curls all silvered o'er with white:
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,Which erst from heat did canopy the herdAnd summer's green all girded up in sheavesBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard:
Then of thy beauty do I question makeThat thou among the wastes of time must go,Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,And die as fast as they see others grow,And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defenceSave breed to brave him, when he takes thee hence.
