My lusts they do me leave,
My fancies all be fled,
And tract of time begins to weave
Grey hairs upon my head.
For age with stealing steps
Hath clawed me with his crutch
The wrinkles in my brow,
The furrows in my face,
Say, limping age will lodge him now
Where youth must give him place.
My hand and pen are not in plight,
As they have been of yore.
As ye of clay were cast by kind,
So shall ye waste to dust.
I loathe that I did love,
In youth that I thought sweet
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