| 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, | 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. |