O, that joy so soon should waste!
Or so sweet a bliss
As a kiss,
Might not forever last!
So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious,
The dew that lies on roses,
When the morn herself discloses,
Is not so precious.
O, rather than I would it smother,
Were I to taste such another;
It should be my wishing
That I might die kissing.
(from Cynthia's Revels)