SONNET XI

I'll see time take upon you, lady mine,
my vengeance when your loveliness it steals;
I'll see your hair turned into purest snow,
which art and youth now curl and tinge with gold;

and in place of roses, with which age,
alas, so insecure, now dyes your cheeks,
lilies in your later years will come
to free Flora from pain and envy cold.

But when unseeing time the cutting edge
of your great beauty dulls, and when the breath
away from your now sovereign mouth it steals,

you'll still see my wound boil, my fire burn:
for neither flames die when the wind is calm;
nor does the wound, once dulled the weapon, heal.