Sonnet 60
Coumme les louêmes aboulent, lus lanchent sus l'galot,
nos minnutes lus amouochèlent pouor mînniet,
veinnent paque-à-coue lus affliotchi à fliot,
trique-pâssant, tic tac, vèrs not' grande mathée.
La jannèche, à flieur d'l'ochéan lithant,
s'êcaloppe en montant; un co jutchie,
r'est dêtrônée par d's êclyipses en bêclian,
et l'temps passecrit lé présent qu'i' t'baillit.
Lé temps dêpique la jouaie d'nos jannes minnutes
et sa tchéthue ladgie touônne nos belles jaues.
La bieauté d'la natuthe, véthe, i' l'embliûte
et tout chein tch'a grandi tchait souos sa faux.
Tout coumme à l'av'nîn mes vèrsets s'sont grands
assez pouor té louangi en d'pit du temps.
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 sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
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