Then it will be by the pale death with his cold hand,
Who with time will stroke your breasts at last;
The precious coral of
your lips long past,
Your shoulders snow, now warm,
Turned cold to sand.
Your eyes sweet lightning, the skills of your
hand,
To him before whom all things fail, will fall
That hair that rivals gold, its gleam will pall,
With days and years as any
common band.
Your well-formed foot, your so enchanting ways,
Of not to dust, to nothing time decays,
Then none will bow down
for your beautys sake,
This and more than this will come to be;
Not even your bones the end of time will see,
Since time chose of
nothing it to make.
