The hours of sleepy night decay apace,
And now warm beds are fitter than this place.
All time is long that is unwilling spent,
But hours are minutes when they yield content.
The gathered flowers we love that breathe sweet scent,
But leave them, their sweet odour being spent.
It is a life is never ill,
To lie and sleep in roses still.

The rarer pleasure is, it is more sweet,
And friends are kindest when they seldom meet.
Who would not hear the nightingale still sing,
Or who grew ever weary of the spring?
The day must have her night, the spring her fall;
All is divided, none is lord of all.
It were a most delightful thing
To live in a perpetual spring.