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 all silver'd 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, Born 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,...