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| SONNET 63 |
| Against my love shall be, as I am now, |
| With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn; |
| When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow |
| With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn |
| Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night, |
| And all those beauties whereof now he's king |
| Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight, |
| Stealing away the treasure of his spring; |
| For such a time do I now fortify |
| Against confounding age's cruel knife, |
| That he shall never cut from memory |
| My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life: |
| His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, |
| And they shall live, and he in them still green. |
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