by Robert Greene
In time we see that silver drops
The craggy stones make soft;
The slowest snail in time, we see,
Doth creep and climb aloft.
With feeble puffs the tallest pine
In tract of time doth fall;
The hardest heart in time doth yield
To Venus' luring call.
Where chilling frost alate did nip,
There flasheth now a fire;
Where deep disdain bred noisome hate,
There kindleth now desire.
Time causeth hope to have his hap;
What care in time not eased?
In time I loathed that now I love,
In both content and pleased.
Last updated April 19, 2018