Why shall I chide the hand of wilful Time When he assaults thy wondrous store of charms? Why charge the gray-beard with a wanton crime? Or strive to daunt him with my shrill alarms? Or seek to lull him with a silly rhyme: So he, forgetful, pause upon his arms, And leave thy beauties in their noble prime, The sole survivors of his grievous harms? Alas! my love, though I'll indeed bemoan The fatal ruin of thy majesty; Yet I'll remember that to Time alone I owed thy birth, thy charms' maturity, Thy crowning love with which he vested me, Nor can reclaim, though all the rest be flown. |