Silver Hair, a Virtuous Crown


From appearance of thine own, by life hath told,
The deed of time shalt make thou old.
Nothing from chant, nor bottle shall aid,
Thine own born penalty, of thy age.

Pigments of gold hath rotted grey,
Flesh once hue of milk, a time beauty was portrayed.
Bleached be'eth eyes, and stature wilted
Lame,
And in thyself, thou heart fatally betrayed.

Obstructed remaineth sinews, frailty in thy limbs,
Reddish hue of thine eyes and radiance in complexion dimmed.
Inaugurated is thine era, in which melancholy doth dwell,
Defamed is thyself, from time's loathsome spell.

Thyself folly, if do strive taketh form of thy past,
Upon thee by others, a pitiful light doth cast.
Lest thou essence be'eth pure in airs,
In life, take leisure from lost faculties thee bares.

Thy hair of silver maketh virtuous a crown,
Hath wasted it be if dyed to drown.
A greatly given due, shalt thee give to all,
Until the trees hath come to fall.

And as how winter steeps, and lay her bitter white,
Yonder there be, thy golden light.

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