- 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,
- 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,
- 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.