While Time, seven ages shall disperse,
Wee'le talke of Love,
And when our tongues hold no commerse.
Our thoughts shall mutually converse.
And yet the blood no rebell prove.
And though we be of severall kind
Fit for offence:
Yet are we so by Love refin'd,
From impure drosse we are all mind.
Death could not more have conquer'd sence.