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have not spent the April of my time,

The sweet of youth in plotting in the air,

But do at first adventure seek to climb,

Whilst flowers of blooming years are green and fair.

I am no leaving of all-withering age,

I have not suffered many winter lours;

I feel no storm unless my love do rage,

And then in grief I spend both days and hours.

This yet doth comfort that my flower lasted

Until it did approach my sun too near;

And then, alas, untimely was it blasted,

So soon as once thy beauty did appear!

But after all, my comfort rests in this,

That for thy sake my youth decayèd is.