"His Golden lockes, Time hath to Silver turn’d, O Time too swift, O Swiftnesse never ceasing: His Youth gainst Time and Age hath ever spurn’d But spurn’d in vain, Youth waineth by increasing. Beauty Strength, Youth, are flowers, but fading seen, Duty, Faith, Love are roots, and ever greene.His Helmet now, shall make a hive for Bees, And Lovers Sonets, turn’d to holy Psalmes: A man at Armes must now serve on his knees, And feede on praiers, which are Age his almes. But though from Court to Cottage he depart, His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.And when he saddest sits in homely Cell, He’ll teach his Swaines this Carroll for a Song, Blest be the heartes that wish my Soveraigne well, Curst be the soules that thinke her any wrong. Goddesse, allow this agèd man his right, To be your Beads-man now, that was your Knight."