https://twitter.com/SirPatStew
Sonnet XII
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prie,
And sable curls, all silver'd o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the heard,
And summer's green all girdled up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;
Then of thy beauty do I questino make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others gro;
An nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Sonnet XIII reminds me of memcache:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination: then you were
Yourself again, after yourself's decease,
