No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told
Thy registers and thee I both defy
Not wondering at the present nor the past
For thy records and what we see doth lie
Made more or less by thy continual haste
This I do vow and this shall ever be;
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee