The world no longer lets me love, My hope and treasure are above.
My age I will not once lament, / But sing, my time so near is spent.
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn.
Sweet words are like honey, a little may refresh, but too much gluts the stomach.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold or all the riches that the East doth hold.
If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant.