Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.

And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.

All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.

Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.

Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.

With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.