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 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.