How fast thou fliest, O Time, on Loves swift wings,
To hopes of joy, that flatters our desire:
Which to a Lover still contentment brings;
Yet when we should injoy, thou dost retire.
Thou stay’st thy pace (false Time) from our desire
When to our ill thou hast’st with Eagles wings:
Slow only to make us see thy retire
Was for Despaire, and harme, which sorrow brings.
O slake thy pace, and milder passe to Love,
Be like the Bee, whose wings she doth but use
To bring home profit; masters good to prove,
Laden, and weary, yet againe pursues.
So lade thy selfe with hony of sweet joy,
And do not me the Hive of Love destroy.
