If all the world and loue were young,
And truth in every Shepherds tongue
Then pretty pleasures might me moue,
To liue wth thee, & be thy loue.
But time driues flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb
The rest complains of cares to come
The flowers doe fade and wanton field;
To wayward winter rickoning yeilds.
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is Vanitys springe, but sorrows fall.
Thy gowns thy shooes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap thy Kirtle, and thy Posies
Soone breake, Soon wither, soone forgotten
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy Gift of straw and Ivir buds,
Thy Coral clasps & Amber studs,
All these in me noe means can moue
To come to thee and be thy loue.
But could youth last; and loue stil breed,
How joye noe daies, nor age no need;
Then those delights my mind might moue
To liue wth thee, & be thy Loue.
Sir Walter Raleigh