Sonnet 60 by Shakespeare

Like as the waves make toward 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 of beauties 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.