There’s nothing grieves me, but that Age should haste,
That in my dayes I may not see thee old;
That where those two cleare sparkling Eyes are plac’d,
Onely two Loope-holes then I might behold.
That lovely, arched, yvorie, pollish’d Brow,
Defac’d with Wrinkles, that I might but see;
Thy daintie Hayre, so curl’d, and crisped now,
Like grizzled Mosse upon some aged Tree;
Thy Cheeke, now flush with Roses, sunke, and leane,
Thy Lips, with age, as any Wafer thinne;
Thy Pearly Teeth out of thy Head so cleane,
That when thou feed’st, thy Nose shall touch thy Chinne;
These Lines that now thou scorn’st, which should delight thee;
Then would I make read but to despight thee.