Whilst it is Prime

Fresh Spring, the herald of love’s mighty king,

In whose cote-armour richly are displayed

All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,

In goodly colours gloriously arrayd—

Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,

Yet in her winters bowre not well awake ;

Tell her the joyous time will not be staid

Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take ;

Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make

To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew ;

Where every one, that misseth then her make,

Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.

Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime ;

For none can call againe the passed time.

[ The Bower of Bliss ] [ Prothalamion ] [ Whilst it is Prime ]