1 Silly boy, 'tis full Moone yet, Thy night and day shines clearely; Had thy youth but wit to feare, thou couldst not loue dearely : Shortly wilt thou mourne when all thy pleasures are bereaued ; Little knowes he how to loue that neuer was deceiued. 2 This is thy first mayden flame that triumphes yet vnstayned ; All is artelesse now you speake, not one word yet is fayned ; All is heau'n that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessed : But no Spring can want his Fall, each Troylus hath his Cresseid. 3 Thy well-order'd lockes ere long shall rudely hang neglected ; And thy liuely pleasant cheate, reade griefe on earth deiected : Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint that made thy heart so holy. And with sighes confeste, in loue, that too much faith is folly. 4 Yet be iust and constant still, Loue may beget a wonder ; Not vnlike a Summers frost, er Winters fatall thunder : Hee that holds his Sweet-hart true vnto his day of dying, Liues of all that euer breath'd most worthy the enuying.
Online text copyright ©, Harald Lillmeyer