But time drives flocks from field to fold,[5]
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.
But fading flowers in every field,
To winter floods their treasures yield;
A honey’d tongue, a heart of gall,
Is Fancy’s spring, but Sorrow’s fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,