Can yet the lease of my true love controule
Supposde as forfeit to a confin'd doome.
The mortall Moone hath her eclipse indur'd
And the sad Augurs mocke their owne presage,
Incertainties now crowne themselves assur'd,
And peace proclaimes Olives of endlesse age.
Now with the droppes of this most balmie time,
My love lookes fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since spight of him Ile live in this poore rime,
While he insults ore dull and speechlesse tribes.
  And thou in this shalt finde thy monument,
  When tyrants crests and tombs of brasse are spent.
What's in the braine that inke may character,
Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit,
What's new to speake, what now to register,
That may expresse my love, or thy deare merit?
Nothing sweet-love, but yet like prayers divine,
I must each day say ore the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallowed thy faire name.
So that eternall love in loves fresh case,
Weighes not the dust and injuries of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquitie for aye his page,
Fnding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward forme would shew it dead.

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