With which the cheekes are sprinckled, shall decay,
And those sweete rosy leaves so fairely spread
Upon the lips, shall fade and fall away
To that they were, even to corrupted clay.
That golden wyre, those sparckling stars so bright
Shall turne to dust, and loose their goodly light.
But that faire lampe, from whose celestial ray
That light proceedes, which kindleth lovers’ fire,
Shall never be extinguisht nor decay,
But when the vitall spirits doe expyre,