Sonnet 77
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.The wrinkles which thy glass will truly showOf mouthed graves will give thee memory;Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst knowTime's thievish progress to eternity.Look, what thy memory can not containCommit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt findThose children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain,To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.
Sore was I ere I saw Eros;my writer as bright as Polarismay see in his glassour love come to pass,but sore I was ere I saw Eros.