LX
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled1 shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil2 all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity3, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked4 eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves5 the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe6 to mow7: And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand. Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.