 | Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies |  |
To his Mistris.
Tis evening, my sweet, & dark, let us meet,
Long time we have been a trying;
And never as yet, that season could get,
Wherein to have had an enjoying.
Long time we have been a trying;
And never as yet, that season could get,
Wherein to have had an enjoying.
For pity or shame, then let not loves flame,
Be ever and ever a spending;
Since now to the Port the path is but short,
And yet our way has no ending.
Be ever and ever a spending;
Since now to the Port the path is but short,
And yet our way has no ending.
Time flies away fast, our hours do waste,
The while we never remember,
How soon our life here, grows old with the yeer
That dies with the next December.
The while we never remember,
How soon our life here, grows old with the yeer
That dies with the next December.
| Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies | |