The wrinkles in my brow, The furrows in my face, Say, limping age will lodge him now Where youth must give him place..

My hand and pen are not in plight, As they have been of yore..

I loathe that I did love, In youth that I thought sweet.

As ye of clay were cast by kind, So shall ye waste to dust..

For age with stealing steps Hath clawed me with his crutch.

My lusts they do me leave, My fancies all be fled, And tract of time begins to weave Grey hairs upon my head..