| Then At Will By The Pale Death With His Cold Hand, Who With Time Will Stroke Your Breasts At Last; | |
| The Precious Coral Of Your Lips Long Past, Your Shoulders' Snow, Now Warm, Turned Cold To Sand | |
| Your Eyes' Sunset Lightning, The Skills Of Your Hand, To Him Before Whom All Things Fail, Will Fall | |
| That Hair That Rivale Bow, Its Bleam Will Pall, With Days And Years As Any Common Band | |
| Your Well-Formed Foot, Your So Enchanting Ways, Of Not To Dust, To Nothing Time Decays, Then None Will Bow Down For Your Beauty's Sake | |
| This And More Than This Will Come To Be; | |
| Not Even Your Bones The End Of Time Will See, Since Time Chose Of Nothing It To Make |
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