1651

Then at will
By the pale death
With his cold hand
Who with time will stroke
Your breasts at last

The precious coral of your lips
Long past
Your shoulders' snow, now warm
Turned cold to sand

Your eyes' sunset lightning
The skills of your hand
To him before whom all things fail
Will fall

That hair that rivale bow
Its bleam will pall
With days and years
As any common band

Your well-formed foot
Your so enchanting ways
Of not to dust, to nothing
Time decays
Then none will bow down
For your beauty's sake

This and more than this
Will come to be
Not even your bones
The end of time will see
Since time chose of nothing it to make