If Love and all the world were young
And truth on ev'ry shepherd's tongue,
Thy fancied pleasures might me move,
And I might listen to thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
The rivers rage and hills grow cold,
the drooping Philomel is dumb,
And age complains of cares to come.

Thy gowns, thy belts, thy beds of roses,
thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
All these in me can do nothing move,
to live with thee and be thy love.

If youth could last, and love remain,
Had joy no date, and age no pain,
Then these delights my mind might move,
And I might listen to thy love.