His golden locks time hath to silver turned;O time too swift! O swiftness never ceasing!His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurned,But spurned in vain; youth waneth by encreasing. Polyhymnia (1590)
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,And lovers’ songs be turned to holy psalms;A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,And feed on prayers, which are old age’s alms. Polyhymnia (1590)