When I, within the mirror, thee regard;
But not of thine, which shone in silvered glass;
Nay, this, that all the many years discard;
As though no year might ever for thee pass.
So fair, thy sherry coloured hair and eyes;
Thy perfect form I see, as straight and hard;
Thy smile, seeming beautiful and wise;
And strong thy limbs, by time are nary scared.
If thou couldst know what wonders thee await;
More wondrous than most any thou surmise;
If thou couldst only see thy pain abate;
And know how much of life this pain denies.
How few thy years; alas, how little wait;
My life surpast, when thou such things instate.