Classic Poem

Ah! leave, my lord, in this your flowering age those weighty cares whereby you labour hard with travail and with danger to your life for high rewards, high honours, high emprise.
Amid these hills, these safe and lovely vales and plains where Love invites, let us together spend a life divine and happy till to our eyes at last the sun grows dark.
So many labours and so many toils make life a hard thing; and all these honours in a trice by death return to naught.
Here let us pluck the rose and flowers and leaves and fruit while time is ours, and with soft music let us sing our loves unto the birds.