Classic Poem

You stately Hils, you princelike Ruins olde,
Which proudly in your last remainders show,
And who as yet the name of faire Rome holde,
To whom did once the whole world homage owe,
 The place where (now) so many Relikes lie,
 Of Holy soules honord for Christ to die.

You Theaters, you Conquerors Arches faire,
Colosses huge, and massie Pillers great,
Triumphant Showes of more then Glory rare,
Where Victorie with pomp did take their seate:
 Lo what a wonder strange in you is wrought,
 You now are dust, consumde (as twere) to nought.

Though conquering War, doth make in time to come,
Many things florish, and with Fame to rise:
Yet in the end when all is past and done,
Time doth All this consume in spitefull wise,
 All Monuments, all Monarchs that have been,
 Time in the end destroyes, and weares out cleane.

And since tis so, I will contented live
In discontent: for if that Time can make
An end of All, and end to each thing give,
(May be) some order he for me will take,
 (May be) in th'end when I shall tried bee
 To th'utmost, I my guerdon just may see.