Sonnet XII, by
William Shakespeare
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 ensilvered 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.
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