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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