856That god forbid, that made me first your slave,

857I should in thought control your times of pleasure,

858Or at your hand th'account of hours to crave,

859Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.

860Oh, let me suffer, being at your beck,

861Th'imprisoned absence of your liberty,

862And patience-tame to sufferance bide each check,

863Without accusing you of injury.

864Be where you list, your charter is so strong

865That you yourself may privilege your time

866To what you will; to you it doth belong

867Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.

868 I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,

869 Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.

871If there be nothing new, but that which is

872Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,

873Which, laboring for invention, bear amiss

874The second burden of a former child?

875Oh, that record could with a backward look,

876Even of five hundred courses of the sun,

877Show me your image in some antique book,

878Since mind at first in character was done,

879That I might see what the old world could say

880To this composèd wonder of your frame;

881Whether we are mended, or whe'er better they,

882Or whether revolution be the same.

883 Oh, sure I am, the wits of former days

884 To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

886Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

887So do our minutes hasten to their end,

888Each changing place with that which goes before,

889In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

890Nativity, once in the main of light,

891Crawls to maturity; wherewith, being crowned,

892Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,

893And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.

894Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,

895And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;

896Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

897And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.

898 And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,

899 Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.