No, Time, Thou Shalt Not Boast That

I'll Be Supposed Upon A Book, His Face Is The Worst Thing About Him.

His Steeds To Water At Those Springs On Chaliced Flowers That Lies; And Winking Mary-buds Begin To Ope Their Golden Eyes: With Every Thing That Pretty Is, My Lady Sweet, Arise.

In Thee Thy Mother Dies, Our Household's Name, My Death's Revenge, Thy Youth, And England's Fame.

Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It.

Virtue Itself Scapes Not Calumnious Strokes.