And whilst I praise
The sparklings of thy locks, and call them rays,
Takes wing—
Leaving behind him, as he flies,
An unperceived dimness in thine eyes.
Gascoigne also thus paints the flight:
The heavens on high perpetually do move;
By minutes’ meal the hour doth steal away,
By hours the days, by days the months remove,
And then by months the years as fast decay;