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  • 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,
  • For My Love
  • 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.
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