Page 1965 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

19 IT

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,

And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet’st,

And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets:
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime −
O, carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,

Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.
Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,

My love shall in my verse ever live young.