In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivie buds,
Thy Coral clasps and Amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy Love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
A little farther on Viator observes:—