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. |
I love this sonnet more than any other of Shakespeare's poems or plays