Vpon those boughes which shake against the cold
Bare ruin'd quires, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twi-lights of such day,
As after Sun-set fadeth in the West,
Which by and by blacke night doth take away,
Deaths second selfe that seales up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nurrisht by.
  Tis thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong.
  To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
Thy glasse will shew thee how thy beauties were,
Thy dyall how thy precious minutes waste,
The vacant leaves thy mindes imprint will beare,
And of this booke, this learning maist thou taste.
The wrinckles which thy glasse will truely show,
Of mouthed graves will give the memory,
Thou by thy dyals shady stealth maist know,
Times theevish progresse to eternity,
Looke what thy memory cannot containe,
Commit to these waste blacks, and thou shalt finde,
Those children nurst, delivered from thy braine,
To take a new acquaintance of thy minde.
  These offices so oft as thou wilt looke.
  Shall profit thee, and much inrich thy booke.

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