[N. Matheson]

Were but I born to years before mine own,
Been nursed on accents ere this vulgar plea,
When you wert thou, and y’all were reckoned ye,
And antique stars, their fledgling lustre shone

Upon the mewling tongues of th’ English voice,
I’d count myself amongst my kith and kin;
Yet Time brought endings ere I might begin,
And destiny denies me ev’ry choice.

Those selfsame stars, once bright with lusty beams,
Hath waned and welked till faint with feeble fire
As th’ embers of those raptured lights did fade.

Now infant wailings turn to bygone screams,
And youthful bliss concedes to withered ire
Where all these transient things are dust and shade.