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 herd
And summer's
green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on
the bier with white and bristly beard:
Then of
thy beauty do I question make
That 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 defence
Save breed
to brave him, when he takes thee hence.
