Will all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shakespearean’s tongue,
Are pretty pleasures might me transit
To live with thee and be thy fantasy dance,

When flowers fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
Would honey tongue, melting a heart of gall?

Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten
In folly ripe, in season rotten.