I once may see when years shall wreck my wrong,
When golden hairs shall change to silver wire,
And those bright rays that kindle all this fire Shall fail in force, their working not so strong;
Then Beauty, now the burden of my song,
Whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire,
Must yield up all to tyrant Time's desire;
Then fade those flowers which deckt her pride so long.
When, if she grieve to gaze her in her glass Which then presents her winter-wither'd hue,
Go you, my verse, go tell her what she was,
For what she was she best shall find in you.
Your fiery heat lets not her glory pass,
But,
Phoenix-like, shall make her live anew.
