|
|
| When I do count the clock that tells the time, | 1 |
|
|
| 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, | 5 |
|
|
| 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, | 10 |
|
|
| 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. |
|
|
