Thy fury's more potent than man's
Most clever weapons of offence;
And, whilst thy hand does stroke with care
But should it chance to touch my hair--

Thanne I shalt see how it betrays
The colour of its early days;
How all of Jesu's land is churn'd,
Indeed, how Life itself is burn'd--

Against the stake of your desire
Which never has enough of pyre
Where every empire turns to dust,
And every death is but your lust--

Yea, Time, you have enough to feed;
Far more so than you really need.
Kynge Arthur