Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with that goes before
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith, being crowned,
Crooked eclipsis '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.