Robert Greene (1558–1592)

IN time we see that silver drops

The craggy stones make soft;

The slowest snail in time we see

Doth creep and climb aloft.

With feeble puffs the tallest pine

In tract of time doth fall;

The hardest heart in time doth yield

To Venus’ luring call.

Where chilling frost alate did nip,

There flasheth now a fire;

Where deep disdain bred noisome hate,

There kindleth now desire.

Time causeth hope to have his hap;

What care in time not eased?

In time I loathed that now I love,

In both content and pleased.