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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.
Time
drives the 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 do fade, and wanton fields
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,
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,
To
come to thee, and be thy love.
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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