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 crown´d,
Crooked eclipses ´gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.

Time doth tranfix 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.
                                                          
                                                                                Shakespeare