NOT mine own fears,
nor the prophetic soul |
|
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, |
|
Can yet the lease of my true love control, |
|
Supposd as forfeit to a confind
doom. |
|
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endurd, |
5 |
And the sad augurs mock their own presage; |
|
Incertainties now crown themselves assurd, |
|
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, |
10 |
Since, spite of him, I ll live in this
poor rime, |
|
While he insults oer dull and speechless
tribes: |
|
And thou in this shalt find thy
monument, |
|
When tyrants crests and
tombs of brass are spent. |
|