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 silver’d 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 scheaves,
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 scyte can make defence’s
saved breed to brave him, when he take the hence.