Silly boy, 'tis ful Moone yet thy night as day shines clearely;
Had thy youth but wit to feare, thou couldst not love so  dearely:
Shortly wilt thou mourne when all thy pleasures are bereaved;
Little knowes he how to love that never was deceived.

This is thy first mayden flame that triumphes yet unstayned;
Asll is artlesse now you speake, not one word yet is fayned;
All is heav'n that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessed:
But no Spring can want his Fall, each Troylus hath his Cresseid.

Thy well-order'd lockes ere long shall rudely hang neglected,
And thy lively pleasant cheare, reade griefe on earth dejected:
Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint that made thy heart so holy,
And with sighs confesse, in love, that too much faith is folly.

Yet be just and constant still, Love may beget a wonder;
Not unlike Summers frost, or Winters fatall thunder:
He that holds his Sweet-hart true unto his day of dying,
Lives of all that ever breath'd most worthy the envying.