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