Time drives the flocks from field to fold，
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold；
And Philomel becometh dumb；
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade， and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields：
A honey tongue， a heart of gall，
Is fancy’s spring， but sorrow’s fall.
Thy gowns， thy shoes， thy beds of roses，