How soon hath
Time,
the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my
three-and-twentieth year!
My
hasting days
fly on with full career,
But my
late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to
manhood am arrived so near;
An inward
ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more
timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven:
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great Task-master's eye.
- John Milton.