by Thomas Lord Vaux

I loathe that I did love, 
In youth that I thought sweet; 
 As time requires for my behove, 
Me thinks they are not meet. 
My lusts they do me leave, 
My fancies all be fled, 
And tract of time begins to weave 
Gray hairs upon my head. 
For age, with stealing steps, 
Hath clawed me with his crutch, 
 And lusty life away she leaps 
As there had been none such. 
My muse doth not delight 
Me as she did before, 
My hand and pen are not in plight 
As they have been of yore. 
For reason me denies 
This youthly idle rhyme, 
And day by day to me she cries, 
Leave off these toys in time. 
The wrinkles in my brow, 
The furrows in my face, 
Say limping age will hedge him now 
Where youth must give him place. 
The harbinger of death, 
To me I see him ride; 
The cough, the cold, the gasping breath, 
Doth bid me to provide 
A pickaxe and a spade, 
And eke a shrouding sheet; 
A house of clay for to be made 
For such a guest most meet. 
Me thinks I hear the clerk 
That knolls the careful knell, 
 And bids me leave my woeful work 
Ere nature me compel. 
My keepers knit the knot 
That youth did laugh to scorn, 
Of me that clean shall be forgot 
As I had not been born. 
 Thus must I youth give up, 
Whose badge I long did wear; 
To them I yield the wanton cup 
That better may it bear. 
Lo, here the bared skull 
By whose bald sign I know 
That stooping age away shall pull 
Which youthful years did sow. 
For beauty, with her band,

These crooked cares hath wrought,

And shipped me into the land 
From whence I first was brought.

And ye that bide behind, 
Have ye none other trust;

As ye of clay were cast by kind, 
So shall ye waste to dust. 
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