Thy glasse will shew thee how thy beauties were,
Thy dyalls how thy pretious mynuits waste,
The vacant leaves thy mindes imprint will beare,
And of this booke, this learning maist thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glasse will truly show,
Of mouthed graves will give thee memorie,
Thou by thy dyals shady progress maist know,
Times thievish progresse to eternitie.