| 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 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, | 10 |
| 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. |