by Robert Herrick

      'TIS evening, my sweet,
      And dark, let us meet ;
Long time we've here been a-toying,
      And never, as yet,
      That season could get
Wherein t'ave had an enjoying.

      For pity or shame,
      Then let not love's flame
Be ever and ever a-spending ;
      Since now to the port
      The path is but short,
And yet our way has no ending.

      Time flies away fast,
      Our hours fo waste,
The while we never remember
      How soon our life, here,
      Grows old with the year
That dies with the next December.

Herrick, Robert. Works of Robert Herrick. vol I.
Alfred Pollard, ed.
London, Lawrence & Bullen, 1891. 245.

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