Haste you, man of woman born,
Kiss the rosy lips of Morn;
Plumb the drowsy eyes of Noon,
Haste, for you and she must leave
Partnership forever, soon;

Haste you, son of man, to weave
Your fingers in the hair of Eve;
Trust you not the sweet word sworn
To young ears by the amorous Moon,
She will leave grey hairs forlorn.

Sup while you may the sugar'd tune
Which persuasive Seasons croon
And sincerely still deceive;
Their new lovers daily born
Daily die: they cannot grieve.