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 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.