Now I'm resolv'd the crazy Universe Grows old, the Sun himself is nigh his hearse; Seven daughters in one week his youthful rays Were wont to get; but since his strength decays, Six are the most: Thursday is lost; for we Who boast ourselves skill'd in th' astronomy Of your day-shedding eyes, by that light swear, That day is lost in which you not appear; That thy dark fancy might a giant-woe Beget, thou mak'st a night Herculean too: The late astronomers have found it true, We have lost many days; but 'tis by you Our calculation errs; and we shall rage, If you go on to cheat us of our age; One day in seven is lost; and in threescore, We are bereaved of nine years, and more: So will your grief dilate itself like day, And all, as you, become untimely grey. |