“Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore” William Shakespeare
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In squent toil all forwards do contend.
Natirity,once in the main of light, Crawis to maturity, where with being crownd, Crooked eclipses qainst his glory fight, And time that gave,doth now his gift contound.