XII

　　When I do count the clock that tells the time， And see the brave day sunk in hideous¹ night； When I behold² the violet past prime， And sable³ curls， all silvered o'er with white； When lofty trees I see barren of leaves， Which erst from heat did canopy⁴ the herd⁵， And summer's green all girdedup 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 forsake⁶ And die as fast as they see others grow； And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe⁷ can make defence Save breed， to brave him when he takes thee hence.