Contrariwise

When I consider every thing that grows
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose
Sweet love renew thy force, be it not said

Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind
The ornament of beauty is suspect
By oft predict that I in heaven find
In our two loves there is but one respect

I have no precious time at all to spend
But let your love even with my life decay
In sequent toil all forwards do contend
That Time will come and take my love away

Our love was new, and then but in the spring
O how thy worth with manners may I sing

My creation, via the Shakespeare Sonnet Shake-Up