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How soon hath Time, the ethereal thief the youth, Stoln on his wing my three and twentieth year! mine hasting days paris on wtih full career, however my late spring no bud or flower shew"th. Probably my semblance might deceive the truth, That ns to manhood am arrived so near, and also inward ripeness doth much much less appear, that some much more timely-happy spirits endu"th. Yet be it much less or more, or soon or slow, the shall it is in still in strictest measure even To that very same lot, yet mean or high, toward which Time leads me, and the will certainly of Heaven; every is, if I have actually grace to usage it so, As ever before in my good Taskmaster"s eye.
