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.