LXIIIAgainst my love shall be as I am now,With Time’s injurious hand crush’d and o’erworn;When hours have drain’d his blood and fill’d his browWith lines and wrinkles; when his youthful mornHath travell’d on to age’s steepy night;And all those beauties whereof now he’s kingAre vanishing, or vanished out of sight,Stealing away the treasure of his spring;For such a time do I now fortifyAgainst confounding age’s cruel knife,That he shall never cut from memoryMy sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life:His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,And they shall live, and he in them still green.
Against my love shall be as I am now,With Time’s injurious hand crush’d and o’erworn;When hours have drain’d his blood and fill’d his browWith lines and wrinkles; when his youthful mornHath travell’d on to age’s steepy night;And all those beauties whereof now he’s kingAre vanishing, or vanished out of sight,Stealing away the treasure of his spring;For such a time do I now fortifyAgainst confounding age’s cruel knife,That he shall never cut from memoryMy sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life:His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,And they shall live, and he in them still green.