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Herbert

SONNET NO. 12

 
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 or silver'd ore with white :
When  lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And  summers green all girded up in sheaves,
Born on the bier with white  and bristly beard:
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
And 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.

 

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