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 appear,
Than some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet it be less or more, or soon and slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure e'en
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Towards 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-Maker's eye.
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