|
| SONNET 77 |
| Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, |
| Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; |
| The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, |
| And of this book this learning mayst thou taste. |
| The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show |
| Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; |
| Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know |
| Time's thievish progress to eternity. |
| Look, what thy memory can not contain |
| Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find |
| Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, |
| To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. |
| These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, |
| Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. |
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