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;
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 season 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.
