Thy filver dishes for thy meat,
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall, on an ivory table, be
Prepar'd each day for thee and me.
The fhepherd-fwains fhall dance and fing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If thefe delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my
F 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 reft complain of cares to come,
The flowers that bloom in wanton field
To wayward winter reckoning yield;
A honey-tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's fpring, but forrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy fhoes, thy beds of rofes,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy pofies,
Soon break, foon wither, foon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
Thy coral clafps, and amber ftuds,
All these in me no mind can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.
What should we talk of dainties then,
Of better meat than's fit for men?
These are but vain; that's only good
Which God hath blest, and sent for food.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joy no date, and age no need,
Then thefe delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;
If the feem not chafte to me,
What care I how chafte fhe be?
No; fhe must be perfect fnow,
In effect as well as fhow,
Warming but as fnow-balls do,
Not like fire by burning too;
But when fhe, by change, hath got
To her heart a fecond lot;
Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er fhe be
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