No ornament can add to what you are,
The sum of beauty, cynosure to all,
Nor can comparison provide your par,
When finest fancy cannot fail to pall.
Yet time will vent its ire as in the course
Of waning of the wordly powers of Earth,
Whose dominance must lose its vital force
And leave to others space to stage their birth.
Beauties who hold sway all share the common plight
That there's no gain against time's rule to cry
Rebellion vain, for that would mirror quite
The golden globe that holds in thrall the sky.
Beauty's perfection imitates the Sun,
Whose might is sovereign, yet whose day must run.
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