Vpon his Picture.

WHen age hath made me what I am not now;
And every wrinckle tels me where the plow
Of time hath furrowed; when an Ice shall flow
Through every vein, and all my head wear snow:
When death displayes his coldnesse in my cheeke,
And I, my selfe in my owne Picture seeke.
Not finding what I am, but what I was▪
In doubt which to beleive, this, or my glasse:
Yet though I alter, this remaines the same
As it was drawne, retaines the primitive frame,
And first complexion; here will still be seen
Blood on the cheeke, and Downe upon the chin.
Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye,
The ruddy Lip, and haire of youthfull dye.
Behold what frailty we in man may see,
Whose Shaddow is lesse given to change then hee.