When Winter snows upon thy golden hairs,
And frost of age hath nipt thy flowers near,
When dark shall seem thy day that never clears,
And all lies wither'd that was held so dear,
Then take this picture which I here present thee,
Limn'd with a pencil not all unworthy:
Here see the gifts that God and Nature lent thee;
Here read thy self, and what I suffer'd for thee.
This may remain thy lasting monument,
Which happily posterity may cherish;
These colors with thy fading are not spent;
These may remain, when thou and I shall perish.
If they remain, then thou shalt live thereby;
They will remain, and so thou canst not die.
