My muse doth not delight
Me, as she did before:
My hand and pen are not in plight,15
As they have bene of yore.
For Reason me denies,
'All' youthly idle rime;[793]
And day by day to me she cries,
Leave off these toyes in tyme.20
The wrinkles in my brow,
The furrowes in my face
Say, Limping age will 'lodge' him now,[794]
Where youth must geve him place.
The harbenger of death,25
To me I se him ride,
The cough, the cold, the gasping breath,
Doth bid me to provide
A pikeax and a spade,
And eke a shrowding shete,[795]30
A house of clay for to be made
For such a guest most mete.
Me thinkes I heare the clarke,
That knoles the carefull knell;[796]
And bids me leave my 'wearye' warke,[797]35
Ere nature me compell.
My kepers[798] knit the knot,
That youth doth laugh to scorne,[799]
Of me that 'shall bee cleane' forgot,[800]
As I had 'ne'er' bene borne.[801]40
Thus must I youth geve up,
Whose badge I long did weare:
To them I yeld the wanton cup,
That better may it beare.
Lo here the bared skull;[802]45
By whose balde signe I know,
That stouping age away shall pull
'What' youthful yeres did sow.[803]
For Beautie with her band,
These croked cares had wrought,50
And shipped me into the land,
From whence I first was brought.