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HOW soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, | |
Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year! | |
My hasting days fly on with full career, | |
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th. | |
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, | 5 |
That I to manhood am arrived so near, | |
And inward ripeness doth much less appear, | |
That some more timely-happy spirits indu’th. | |
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, | |
It shall be still in strictest measure even | 10 |
To that same lot, however mean or high, | |
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven, | |
All is, if I have grace to use it so, | |
As ever in my great Task-master’s eye |
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