LXIII

    Against my love shall be as I am now, With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn； When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow With lines and wrinkles； when his youthful morn Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night； And all those beauties whereof now he's king Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight, Stealing away the treasure of his spring； For such a time do I now fortify¹ Against confounding age's cruel knife, That he shall never cut from memory My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life： His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green.