Against my love shall be as I am nowWith Time's injurious hand crushed and o'erworn,When hours have drained his blood and filled his browWith lines and wrinkles, when his youthful mornHath travelled on to age's steepy night,And all those beauties whereof now he's kingAre vanishing, or vanished out of sight,Stealing away the treasure of his spring:

For such a time do I now fortifyAgainst confounding age's cruel knife,That he shall never cut from memoryMy sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life.

His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,And they shall live, and he in them still green.