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Friday, April 22, 2016

Birthday Sonnet - Shakespeare, The Bard

Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore
So do our minutes hasten to their end
Each changing place with that which goes before
In sequential toil all forwards do contend

Nativity, once in the main of light
Crawls to maturity wherewith, being crowned
Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight
And time, that gave the gift, doth now his gift confound

Time does place the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauties brow
Feeds on the rarities of natures truth

And nothing stands, but for his scythe to mow

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