Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd 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