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 dreffings of a former fight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou doft foift upon us that is old;
And rather make them born to our defire
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 vow, and this shall ever be,
I will be true, defpite thy fcythe and thee.
If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd,
As fubje to Time's love or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers
No, it was builded far from accident;
It fuffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of short number'd hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic,
That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with
To this I witnefs call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.
Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which prove more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,
For compound sweet foregoing fimple favour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent ?
No, let me be obfequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou fuborn'd informer! a true foul
When most impeach'd stands least in thy control.
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Doft hold Time's fickie glass, his fickle, hour;
Who haft by waning grown, and therein show'st
Thy lovers withering as thy fweet self grow'st;
If Nature, fovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goeft onwards, ftill will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time difgrace and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not ftill keep, her treasure :
Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.
In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's fucceffive heir,
And beauty flander'd with a bastard shame:
For fince each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black,
Her eyes fo fuited, and they mourners seem
At fuch who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a false esteem:
Yet fo they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue fays beauty should look fo.
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