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CXXIII.
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 dressings of a
former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we
admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
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,
despite thy scythe and thee.
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