As fast as thou shalt wane so fast thou grow’st,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest,
And that fresh blood wich youngly thou bestow’st,
Thou mayst call thine, wen thou from youth convertest,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase,
Without this folly, age, and cold decay,
If were minded so, the times should cease,
And threescore year would make the world away:
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harch featurless,and rude, barrenly perich,
Look whom she best endow’d, she gave the more;
Which bounteous gift thou shuldst in bounty cherich,
She carv’d thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shuldst print more, not let the copy die.