“Come and let us live my Deare,Let us love and never feare,What the sowrest Fathers say:Brightest Sol that dies to dayLives againe as blithe to morrow,But if we darke sons of sorrowSet; o then, how long a NightShuts the Eyes of our short light!Then let amorous kisses dwellOn our lips, begin and tellA Thousand, and a Hundred, scoreAn Hundred, and a Thousand more,Till another Thousand smotherThat, and that wipe of another.Thus at last when we have numbredMany a Thousand, many a Hundred;Wee’l confound the reckoning quite,And lose our selves in wild delight:While our joyes so multiply,As shall mocke the envious eye.”