His golden locks time hath to silver turned; O time too swift! O swiftness never ceasing! His youth gainst time and age hath ever spurned, But spurned in vain; youth waneth by encreasing.
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees, And lovers songs be turned to holy psalms; A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are old ages alms.