When you shall see me in the toils of Time,My lauded beauties carried off from me,My eyes no longer stars as in their prime,My name forgot of Maiden Fair and Free;
When, in your being, heart concedes to mind,And judgment, though you scarce its process know,Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined,And you are irked that they have withered so;
Remembering mine the loss is, not the blame,That Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill,Knowing me in my soul the very sameOne who would die to spare you touch of ill!
It makes more sense if you see more of the context, as above. The writer is anticipating that old age will rob her of her looks, and her lover will come to resent this. In her case [remembering mine] the loss is inevitable, she says, because Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill, [as a farmer, for example, will breed and feed young pheasants to be shot for sport]. No-one is to blame that, as time goes on, we all lose our looks and faculties to a greater or less extent.