The Sun it selfe, which makes times, as they passe,
Is elder by a yeare, now, then it was
5When thou and I first one another saw:
All other things, to their destruction draw,
Only our love hath no decay;
This, no to morrow hath, nor yesterday,
Running it never runs from us away,
10But truly keepes his first, last, everlasting day.
Two graves must hide thine and my coarse,
If one might, death were no divorce.