by: William Shakespeare
      HEN 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 all silvered o'er with white,
      When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
      Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
      And summer's green all girded up 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 forsake
      And die as fast as they see others grow;
      And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defense
      Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.