A
B O O K E   O F
AYRES

P h i l i p   R o s s e t e r

1601

20. What then is loue but.

       What then is loue but mourning,
           What desire, but a selfe-burning,
       Till shee that hates doth loue returne,
       Thus will I mourne, thus will I sing,
           Come away, come away my darling.

       Beautie is but a blooming,
           Youth in his glorie entombing;
       Time hath a while, which none can stay,
       Then come away while thus I sing,
           Come away, come away my darling.

       Sommer in winter fadeth,
           Gloomie night heaun'ly light shadeth,
       Like to the morne are Venus flowers,
       Such are her howers, then will I sing,
           Come away, come away my darling.