No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change： Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are nothing novel, nothing strange； They are but dressings¹ of a former sight. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire What thou dost foist² upon us that is old； And rather make them born to our desire Than think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I both defy, Not wondering at the present nor the past, For thy records and what we see doth lie, Made more or less by thy continual haste. This I do vow³ and this shall ever be； I will be true despite thy scythe⁴ and thee.