| | If all the world and love were young, |
| | And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, |
| | These pretty pleasures might me move |
| | To live with thee and be thy love. |
| | |
| 5 | Time drives the flocks from field to fold |
| | When rivers rage and rocks grow cold, |
| | and Philomel1 becometh dumb; |
| | The rest complains of cares to come. |
| | The flowers do fade, and wanton fields |
| 10 | To wayward winter reckoning yields; |
| | A honey tongue, a heart of gall, |
| | Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall. |
| | |
| | Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, |
| | Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies |
| 15 | Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten— |
| | In folly ripe, in reason rotten. |
| | |
| | Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, |
| | Thy coral clasps and amber studs, |
| | All these in me no means can move |
| 20 | To come to thee and be thy love. |
