When I do count the clock that tells the
And see the brave day sunk in hideous
When I behold the violet past
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with

When lofty trees I see barren of
Which erst from heat did canopy the
And summer's green all girded up in
Borne on the bier with white and bristly

Then of thy beauty do I question
That thou among the wastes of time
Since sweets and beauties do themselves
And die as fast as they see others

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee