How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, <br /> Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! <br /> My hasting days fly on with 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 arriv'd so near; <br /> And inward ripeness doth much less appear, <br /> That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. <br /> Yet it be less or more, or soon or slow, <br /> It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n <br /> To that same lot, however mean or high, <br /> Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n: <br /> All is, if I have grace to use it so <br /> As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.<br /><br />John Milton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-vii-how-soon-hath-time-the-subtle-thief-o/
