The time that tells our life, which though it run
Never so fast or far, your new begun
Short steps shall overtake: for though life well
May ’scape his own account, it shall not yours.
You are Death’s auditors, that both divide
And sum whate’er that life inspir’d endures,
Past a beginning; and through you we bide
The doom of fate, whose unrecall’d decree
You date, bring, execute; making what’s new,
Ill, and good, old; for as we die in you,