William Shakespeare

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to the end;
Each changing place with that which goes before.
In sequent toil all forward do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity , wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his story fight,
And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in 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.