“To this composed wonder of your frame; Wh'r we are mended, or wh'r better they, Or whether revolution be the same. O! sure I am the wits of former days,
To subjects worse have given admiring praise. LX Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth”