1603 by Shakespeare 
Sonnet 107 

1	Not mine own fears nor the prophetic soul
2	Of the wide world dreaming on things to come
3	Can yet the lease of my true love control,
4	Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
5	The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
6	And the sad augurs mock their own presage#
7	Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
8	And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
9	Now with the drops of this most balmy time
10	My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
11	Since spite of him I’ll live in this poor rhyme
12	While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes#
13	And thou in this shalt find thy monument
14	When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.