My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come.

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!

Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.

I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet