LIX. If there be nothing new, but that which is O, that record could with a backward look, O, fure 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 fequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: LXI. Is it thy will thy image should keep open To find out fhames and idle hours in me, O, no! thy love, though much, is not fo great: To play the watchman ever for thy fake: For thee watch I whilst thou doft wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near. LXII. Sin of felf-love poffeffeth all mine eye 'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise, LXIII. Against my love shall be, as I am now, With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn; ་ 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 That he shall never cut from memory |