| 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 | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| |
| 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. | |