Thy watch may stand, my minutes fly post haste;
No sound calls back the year that once is past.
Then, sweetest Silvia, let’s no longer stay;
True love, we know, precipitates delay.
Away with doubts, all scruples hence remove!
No man, at one time, can be wise, and love.
Guess I may what I must be:First, I shall decline my head;Secondly, I shall be dead;Lastly, safely buried.
But yet those blessed gates I seeWithstanding entrance unto me;To pray for me do thou begin;–The porter then will let me in.
If so be you ask me whereThey do grow? I answer, thereWhere my Julia’s lips do smile;–There’s the land, or cherry-isle;Whose plantations fully showAll the year where cherries grow.
Thou that tam’st Tygers, and fierce storms (that rise)With thy soul-melting Lullabies:Fall down, down, down, from those thy chiming spheres,To charm our souls, as thou enchant’st our ears.
