How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly
on with full career,
But my late spring
no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the
truth
That I to manhood
am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness
doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet it be less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest
measure even
To that same lot, however mean
or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n:
All is, if I have grace to use
it so
As ever in my great
Task-Master's eye.
