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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.
As eth avwse vemo wraotd eth bepelbd sehro, so do het isetmnu we eahv to ivle ahsnet rotwad eitrh den, ehca mmeton ghniacgn pecla htiw teh eno roebfe, rigvistn to ovme fradorw itwh eseusvcisc oeffrst. rvEnheyigt htat sha neeb obnr, ugtohh it eocn smaw in ttah rbdoa oenac of ithlg taht ixsste erofbe hirbt, cwarls sti ayw up hte resohs of aittmuyr, ewhre it sefca lrcue loabstces to its rlyog. imeT, chhwi gsiev ntyiegrhve, nwo esdroyst its own figt. Teim ercspei the ebaytu of yohtu, gndiawr rlsiwekn in yabute’s eedofahr. Time udrovse the sihoctec csemniesp of unaert; tgnhino estxis that it own’t owm donw htwi its yhcset. Adn yte my eervss illw tlas oint the furute, arpiisgn yrou worht stiedpe Tmie’s lrcue dahn.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets