Whilst it is prime

    In whose cote-armour richly are displayd

    All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring

    In goodly colours gloriously arrayd—

    Goe to my love where she is carelesse layd

    Yet in her winters bowre not well awake；

    Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid

    Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take；

    Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make

    To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew；

    Where every one that misseth then her make

    Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.

    Make hast therefore sweet love whilest it is prime；

    For none can call againe the passèd time.