~~~~~~~~~~

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a cónfined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage.
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, Ill live in this poor rhyme
While he insults oer dull and speechless tribes.
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants crests and tombs of brass are spent

- William Shakespeare (1564-1616)