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, 

The 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.