Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old with all the characters of age?

The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.

There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.

My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.

Season your admiration for a while.

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat; Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

Wish chastely, and love dearly.