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CVII.
Not
mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide
world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease
of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a
confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse
endured
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured
And peace
proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops
of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and
death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll
live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull
and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find
thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass
are spent.
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