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 brow
    With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
    Hath travell’d on to age’s steepy night,
    And all those beauties whereof now he’s king
    Are vanishing or vanish’d out of sight,
    Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
    For such a time do I now fortify
    Against confounding age’s cruel knife,
    That he shall never cut from memory
    My 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.

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