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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,
- 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.
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