William Shakespeare(1564–1616)

Sonnet 60

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 toil8 all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main 0 of light,sea

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,

Crooked9 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 1 in beauty's brow,

Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

And nothing stands but for2 his scythe to mow.

And yet to times in hope3 my verse shall stand,

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

your offense; also, smoothing and healing, as withuous succession, in unbroken series.