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Shakespeare’s sonnet 60
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Like as the waves make towards the
pebbled shore,
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So do our minutes hasten to their end,
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Each changing place with that which goes before;
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In sequent toil all
forwards do contend.
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Nativity,
once in the main of light,
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Crawls to
maturity,
wherewith being crowned
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Crookèd eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight,
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And time that gave doth now his gift confound.
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Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
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And delves the parallels in beauty’s
brow;
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Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
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And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
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And yet to times in hope my
verse shall stand,
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Praising thy worth despite his cruel hand.
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The Shakespearian Sonnet Project
by Cinzia Dalla Ricca
January 2008