Shakespeare's Sonnet 107

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soulOf the wide world dreaming on things to come,Can yet the lease of my true love control,Supposed as forfeit to a confin’d doom.The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur’d,And the sad augurs mock their own presage;Incertainties now crown themselves assur’d,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, I’ll live in this poor rime,While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes:And thou in this shalt find thy monument,When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.

Neither my own fears nor the prophetic spirit of the whole world, dreaming of things to come, can set a limit on my faithful love, though it was thought doomed to a fixed end. The mortal moon has survived her eclipse, and the gloomy prophets now mock their own predictions. Uncertainty now crowns itself with confidence, and peace proclaims that its olive branches will last forever. Now, refreshed by the drops of this gentle time, my love looks young, and Death yields to me. Despite him, I will live in this humble poem while he triumphs over the dull and speechless masses. And in this poem you will find your monument when tyrants’ emblems and bronze tombs have worn away.