When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And innocence is closing up his eyes, Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life, thou might'st him yet recover
With much we surfeit; plenty makes us poor.
When Time shall turne those Amber Lockes to Gray.
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part.
Better sit still, than rise to meet the devil.
WhenTime shall turn those amber locks to grey, My verse again shall gild and make them gay.