Classic Poem

I once may see when yeares shall wreck my wrong,
When golden haires shall chaunge to silver wier:
And those bright raies, that kindle all this fier,
Shall faile in force, their working not so strong.
Then beauty (now the burthen of my song)
Whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire,
Must yeeld up all to tyrant Times desire;
Then fade those flowers which deckt her pride so long.
When, if she grieve the gaze her in her glasse,
Which then presents her winter-withered hew,
Goe you my verse, go tell her what she was;
For what she was, she best shall find in you.
Your firy heate lets not her glory passe,
But (Phaenix-like) shall make her live anew.