How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th
Yet it be less or more, or soon or slow
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n:
All is, if I have grace to use it so
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye
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