Shakespeare's Sonnets: Not mine own fears nor the prophetic soul

Not mine own fears nor the prophetic soulOf the wide world, dreaming on things to come,Can yet the lease of my true love control,Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom.The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,And the sad augurs mock their own presage;Incertainties now crown them-selves assur'd,And peace proclaims olives of endless age.Now with the drops of this most balmy timeMy love looks fresh, and death to me subscribesSince spite of him I'll live in this poor rhymeWhile he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes, And thou in this shalt find thy monument When tyrant's crests and tombs of brass are spent.