How many a year hath Time, with felon hand
Filched from the sum of my alloted days,
Alas, with no performance that may stand
In warrant of a well-earned meed of praise!
Time hath the forehead of my life belined,
And clipt my youth with his accursèd shears,
Hath made companionable Joy unkind,
And taught mine eyes the fellowship of tears.
His false hands falsely have my mind a**ailed,
Thence stealing many a secret of sweet pleasure;
But his foiled fingers nothing have prevailed
Against my heart--the casket of my treasure.
My love of thee preserved in its fresh prime,
I, robbed, left rich; how poor a thief is Time!