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.