How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, <br />Stoln on his wing my three and twentieth year! <br />My hasting days fly on wtih full career, <br />But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. <br />Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, <br />That I to manhood am arrived so near, <br />And inward ripeness doth much less appear, <br />That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. <br />Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, <br />It shall be still in strictest measure even <br />To that same lot, however mean or high, <br />Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven; <br />All is, if I have grace to use it so, <br />As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye.<br /><br />John Milton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/how-soon-hath-time/
