Nature that Washed Her Hands in Milk

7Her eyes he would should be of light,

8A violet breath, and lips of jelly;

9Her hair not black, nor overbright,

10And of the softest down her belly;

11As for her inside he'd have it

12Only of wantonness and wit.

13At love's entreaty such a one

14Nature made, but with her beauty

15She hath framed a heart of stone;

16So as Love, by ill destiny,

17Must die for her whom nature gave him

18Because her darling would not save him.

19But time, which nature doth despise

20And rudely gives her love the lie,

21Makes hope a fool, and sorrow wise,

22His hands do neither wash nor dry;

23But being made of steel and rust,

24Turns snow and silk and milk to dust.

25The light, the belly, lips, and breath,

26He dims, discolors, and destroys;

27With those he feeds but fills not death,

28Which sometimes were the food of joys.

29Yea, time doth dull each lively wit,

30And dries all wantonness with it.

31Oh, cruel time, which takes in trust

32Our youth, or joys, and all we have,

33And pays us but with age and dust;

34Who in the dark and silent grave

35When we have wandered all our ways

36Shuts up the story of our days.