80 THE COMPLETE ANGLER. [part i. 



But time drives flocks from field to fold, 

 When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold, 

 Then Philomel becometh dumb, 

 And age complains of cares to come. 



The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 

 To wayward Winter reckoning yields. 

 A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 

 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow' s fall . 



Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 

 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 

 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten ; 

 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 



Thy belt of straw, and ivy -buds, 

 Thy coral clasps, and amber studs, 

 All these in me no means can move 

 To come to thee, and be thy Love. 



What should we talk of dainties then, 

 Of better meat than' s fit for men ? 

 These are but vain : that's only good 

 Which God hath blest, and sent for food. 



But could youth last, and love still breed, 

 Had joys no date, nor age no need ; — 

 Then those delights my mind might move, 

 To live with thee, and be thy Love. 



