| |
|
LXIII.
Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's
injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;
When hours have
drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and
wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to
age's steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof
now he's king
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a
time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel
knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My
sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His
beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they
shall live, and he in them still green.
|
|
|
