- 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,
- Supposed as forfeit to a confin’d doom.
- The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur’d,
- 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,
- 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.