But sad
mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with
this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose
action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how
shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against
the wreckful siege of battering days,
When
rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor
gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
O
fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall
Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what
strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who
his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine
bright.”— English playwright-poet William Shakespeare (1564-1616), "Sonnet 121"
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