| 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, | |
| Suppos’d as forfeit to a confin’d doom. | |
| The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur’d, | 5 |
| And the sad augurs mock their own presage; | |
| Incertainties now crown themselves assur’d, | |
| 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 o’er dull and speechless tribes: | |
| And thou in this shalt find thy monument, | |
| When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent. |