When thou art old and bye the fire alone Bent o'er the candle thou dost twirl the skeine, Then shalt thou quaver, with bewilder'd brayneHowe Ronsard sang thy lovelinesse long gone.Then if thy servant hear my lover's moan Though toil doth drowse her, yet at that sweet strayne She shall arise to honour thy dead swaine.And give thy name immortal benison.
I shall be buried and long turned to claye Under dark myrtle-trees wherbye I rest; Whyle thou besyde the hearth with shrunken breast,Bewail'st the love that thou didst spurn awaye; Then hearken nowe to thy true love's behest:Gather the roses of thy lyfe to-daye.
