Now that the April of your youth adorns
The garden of your face;
Now that for you each knowing lover mourns,
And all seek to your grace;
Do nor repay affection with scorns.

What though you may a matchless beauty vaunt,
And that all hearts can move
By such a power as seemeth to enchant?
Yet without help of love
Beauty no pleasure to itself can grant.

Then think each minute that you lose a day;
The longest youth is short,
The shortest age is long; time flies away,
And makes us but his sport;
And that which is not youth's is age's prey.

See but the bravest horse, that prideth most,
Though he escape the war,
Either from master to the man is lost,
Or turned unto the car,
Or else must die with being ridden post.

Then lose not beauty, lovers, time, and all;
Too late your fault you see,
When that in vain you would these days recall;
Nor can you virtuous be
When without these you have not wherewithal.