My golden locks time hath to silver turn'd
(O time too swift, and swiftness never ceasing)
My youth 'gainst age, and age at youth hath spurn'd,
But spurn'd in vain; youth waineth by encreasing,
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers that fading been,
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

My helmet now shall make an hive for bees,
And lovers songs shall turn to holy psalms;
A man at arms must now sit on his knees,
And feed on prayers that are old age's alms;
And tho' from court to cottage I depart,
My saint is sure of mine unspotted heart.

And when I sadly sit in homely cell,
I’ll teach my swains this carrol for a song,
Blest be the hearts that think my sovereign well,
Curs'd be the souls that think to do her wrong.
Goddess, vouchsafe this aged man his right,
To be your beadsman now, that was your knight.