No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old;
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
This I do vow and this shall ever be;
I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.
In plain English
You won't catch me changing my mind or my heart, Time. Your grand new monuments—your pyramids and all your shiny inventions—they don't impress me. They're just dressed-up versions of things that already existed. We mortals are short-lived, so we mistake your recycled old ideas for novelties and pretend they were made just for us, rather than admit we've seen them before.
I reject both your official records and you yourself. I won't be amazed by what's happening now or what happened before, because your records lie anyway—you distort everything, making old things look new and new things look old, depending on your mood. Here's my promise: I'll stay loyal and true, no matter how much you age me or try to wear me down.
