| 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. | |
| |
| But Time drives flocks from field to fold; | 5 |
| When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; | |
| And Philomel becometh dumb; | |
| The rest complains of cares to come. | |
| |
| The flowers do fade, and wanton fields | |
| To wayward Winter reckoning yields: | 10 |
| 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, | |
| Soon break, soon wither—soon forgotten, | 15 |
| 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 | |
| To come to thee and be thy Love. | 20 |
| |
| But could youth last, and love still breed, | |
| Had joys no date, nor age no need, | |
| Then these delights my mind might move | |
| To live with thee and be thy Love. | |