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 gall¹，

    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 wither²， soon forgotten——

    In folly³ ripe， in reason rotten.

    Thy belt of straw and ivy⁴ buds，

    Thy coral clasps and amber⁵ 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.