Sonnet 63

Against my love shall be, as I am now,With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his browWith lines and wrinkles; when his youthful mornHath travell'd on to age's steepy night,And all those beauties whereof now he's kingAre vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,Stealing away the treasure of his spring;For such a time do I now fortifyAgainst confounding age's cruel knife,That he shall never cut from memoryMy sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life: His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green.
The garden of youth is a-blighting,as Time's keen knife continues biting.The rancorous thiefwill pluck every leafand all I can do is keep writing.