Like as the waves make towards the
pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes
before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being
crown'd,
Crooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift
confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on
youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's
brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to
mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse
shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel
hand.
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Shakespeare's Sonnets:
