But loue whilst that thou maist be lou’d againe,
Now whilst thy May hath fill’d thy lappe with flowers;
Now whilst thy beautie beares without a staine;
Now vse thy Summer smiles ere winter lowres.
And whilst thou spread’st vnto the rysing sunne,
The fairest flowre that euer sawe the light:
Now ioye thy time before thy sweete be dunne,
And Delia, thinke thy morning must haue night.
And that thy brightnes sets at length to west:
When thou wilt close vp that which now thou showest:
And thinke the same becomes thy fading best,
Which then shall hide it most, and couer lowest.
Men doe not weigh the stalke for that it was,
When once they finde her flowre, her glory passe.