“ Like as the waves make towards the
pebbled shore,1
pebbled shore,1
So do our minutes hasten to their end ;2
Each changing place with that which
goes before,3
goes before,3
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.4
Nativity once in the main of light,5
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being
crowned,6
crowned,6
Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight,7
And Time that gave, doth now his
confound.8
confound.8
Time doth transfix the flourish set on
youth,9
youth,9
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow ;10
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,11
And nothing stands but for his scythe to
mow.12
mow.12
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall
stand,13
stand,13
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel
hand.”14
hand.”14