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Then it will be by the pale death with his cold hand,
Who with time will stroke your breasts at last;
The precious coral of your lips long past,
Your shoulder`s snow, now warm,
Turned cold to sand.

Your eye`s sweet lightning, the skills of your hand,
To him before whom all things fail, will fall
That hair that rivals gold, it`s gleam will pall,
With days and years as any common band.

Your well-formed foot, your so enchanting ways,
Of not to dust, to nothing time decays,
Then none will bow down for your beauty`s sake,
This and more than this will come to be;
Not even your bones the end of time will see,
Since time chose of nothing it to make.

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