William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

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 crowned,

Crooked eclipses ’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.