| |
|
XII.
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.
|
|
|
