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| SONNET 12 |
| 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. |
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