by Fulke Greville
WH E N all this All doth pass from age to age,
And revolution in a circle turn,
Then heavenly justice doth appear like rage,
The caves do roar, the very seas do burn,
Glory grows dark, the sun becomes a night,
And makes this great world feel a greater might.
When Love doth change his seat from heart to heart,
And Worth about the wheel of fortune goes,
Grace is diseased, Desert seems overthwart,
Vows are forlorn, and Truth doth credit lose,
Chance then gives law, Desire must be wise,
And look more ways than one, or lose her eyes.
My age of joy is past, of woe begun,
Absence my presence is, strangeness my grace,
With them that walk against me, is my sun:
The wheel is turned, I hold the lowest place,
What can be good to me since my love is
To do me harm, content to do amiss?
Renaissance Poetry. Duncan Jones, ed.
Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 2002. 36.
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