When winter snows upon thy sable hairs, and frost of age hath nipped thy beauties near; when dark shall seem thy day that never clears, and all lies withered that was held so dear, then take this picture which I here present thee, limned with a pencil not all unworthy;
Fair is my Love, and cruel as she’s fair her brow shades frowns, although her eyes are sunny; her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair; and her disdains are gall, her favours honey. A modest maid, decked with a blush of honour, whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love,
Suffice they show I lived, and loved thee dear.
When your eyes have done their part thought must length’n it in the heart.
If this be love, to clothe me with dark thoughts, haunting untrodden paths to wail apart; my pleasures horror, music tragic notes, tears in mine eyes and sorrow at my heart. If this be love, to live a living death, then do I love and draw this weary breath.
The best thing of our life, our rest, and give us up to toil.
Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, Hey ho.