WHEN I do count the
clock that tells the time |
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And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; |
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When I behold the violet past prime, |
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And sable curls, all silverd oer
with white; |
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When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, |
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Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, |
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And summers green all girded up in
sheaves, |
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Borne on the bier with white and bristly
beard, |
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Then of thy beauty do I question make, |
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That thou among the wastes of time must go, |
10 |
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake |
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And die as fast as they see others grow; |
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And nothing gainst Times
scythe can make defence |
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Save breed, to brave him when
he takes thee hence. |
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