The Sonnets

Against my love shall be as I am now,

With Timeʼs injurious hand crushʼd and oʼerworn;

When hours have drainʼd his blood and fillʼd his brow

With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn

Hath travellʼd on to ageʼs steepy night;

And all those beauties whereof now heʼs king

Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,

Stealing away the treasure of his spring;

For such a time do I now fortify

Against confounding ageʼs cruel knife,

That he shall never cut from memory

My sweet loveʼs beauty, though my loverʼs life:

His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,

And they shall live, and he in them still green.