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, |
5 |
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crownd, |
|
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 beautys
brow, |
10 |
Feeds on the rarities of natures 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. |
|