TIME is the feather'd thing,     And, whilst I praise The sparklings of thy looks and call them rays,               Takes wing,     Leaving behind him as he flies An unperceived dimness in thine eyes.     His minutes, whilst they're told,         Do make us old;     And every sand of his fleet glass,     Increasing age as it doth pass,     Insensibly sows wrinkles there     Where flowers and roses do appear.     Whilst we do speak, our fire     Doth into ice expire,         Flames turn to frost;         And ere we can     Know how our crow turns swan,     Or how a silver snow     Springs there where jet did grow, Our fading spring is in dull winter lost.     Since then the Night hath hurl'd         Darkness, Love's shade,     Over its enemy the Day, and made              The world     Just such a blind and shapeless thing As 'twas before light did from darkness spring,     Let us employ its treasure     And make shade pleasure: Let 's number out the hours by blisses, And count the minutes by our kisses;     Let the heavens new motions feel     And by our embraces wheel;     And whilst we try the way     By which Love doth convey         Soul unto soul,         And mingling so     Makes them such raptures know     As makes them entranced lie         In mutual ecstasy, Let the harmonious spheres in music roll!