But all the love and Worlds remain,

It’s gifts that die and minds that change.

Pleasures now ought move us still,

This love of ours rots on the sill.

Spring will end, and then the harvest

So too rocks roll into a far mist.

The gown I’ve sewn, new shoes and kirtle,

The seeds I’ve grown to boughs of myrtle.

The scent of posies have been forgotten

You say these pleasures will soon be rotten,

The flowers will fade to wanton fields,

Now here I claim that love won’t yield.

Had joys no date, nor age no need

Then still I’d wait, for signs to heed.

I hope for you that pleasures spawn

And move your mind past curtains drawn.