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. | |
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