F that the World and Love were Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
And truth in every shepherd's Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
These pretty pleasures might
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Thy belt of straw, and ivie-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs;
All these in me no means can move
But time drives flocks from field to fold, To come to thee, and be thy love.
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yield:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancies spring, but sorrows fall.
But could youth last, and love still
breed,
Had joyes no date, nor age no need,
Then those delights my mind might
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Shall I like an Hermit well?
HALL I like an hermit dwell,
On a rock, or in a cell?
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?
If she undervalues me,
What care I how fair she be?
Were her tresses angel-gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebukèd, unafraid,
To convert them to a braid,
And, with little more ado,
Work them into bracelets too :
It the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?
Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hairs, or precious eyes,
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good manners' sake,
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip:
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?
No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snowballs do,
Not like fire, by burning too:
But when she, by change, hath got
To her heart a second lot,
Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be!
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