CVII
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit1 to a confin'd doom2. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd, And the sad augurs3 mock their own presage4; Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time, My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes5, Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rime6, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants7' crests8 and tombs of brass9 are spent.