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Shakespeare's  Sonnet . . .
When I do count the clock that tells the time,


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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,

And die as fast as they see others grow;

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence

Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

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