Suppose that he might meet thee once alone,
    Face unto face, without or jealousy,
  Or doubt or fear from false misgiving grown,
    And tell his tale of grievous pain to thee,
  Sure from thy breast he’d draw full many a moan. 
    And make thy fair eyes weep right plenteously: 
  Yea, if he had but skill his heart to show,
  He scarce could fail to win thee by its woe.

  Now art thou in thy beauty’s blooming hour;
    Thy youth is yet in pure perfection’s prime: 
  Make it thy pride to yield thy fragile flower,
    Or look to find it paled by envious time: 
  For none to stay the flight of years hath power,
    And who culls roses caught by frosty rime? 
  Give therefore to thy lover, give, for they
  Too late repent who act not while they may.

  Time flies:  and lo! thou let’st it idly fly: 
    There is not in the world a thing more dear;
  And if thou wait to see sweet May pass by,
    Where find’st thou roses in the later year? 
  He never can, who lets occasion die: 
    Now that thou canst, stay not for doubt or fear;
  But by the forelock take the flying hour,
  Ere change begins, and clouds above thee lower.

  Too long ’twixt yea and nay he hath been wrung;
    Whether he sleep or wake he little knows,
  Or free or in the bands of bondage strung: 
    Nay, lady, strike, and let thy lover loose! 
  What joy hast thou to keep a captive hung? 
    Kill him at once, or cut the cruel noose: 
  No more, I prithee, stay; but take thy part: 
  Either relax the bow, or speed the dart.

  Thou feedest him on words and windiness,
    On smiles, and signs, and bladders light as air;
  Saying, thou fain wouldst comfort his distress,
    But dar’st not, canst not:  nay, dear lady fair,
  All things are possible beneath the stress
    Of will, that flames above the soul’s despair! 
  Dally no longer:  up, set to thy hand;
  Or see his love unclothed and naked stand.

  For he hath sworn, and by this oath will bide,
    E’en though his life be lost in the endeavour,
  To leave no way, nor art, nor wile untried,
    Until he pluck the fruit he sighs for ever: 
  And, though he still would spare thy honest pride,
    The knot that binds him he must loose or sever;
  Thou too, O lady, shouldst make sharp thy knife,
  If thou art fain to end this amorous strife.

  Lo! if thou lingerest still in dubious dread,
    Lest thou shouldst lose fair fame of honesty,
  Here hast thou need of wile and warihead,
    To test thy lover’s strength in screening thee;
  Indulge him, if thou find him well bestead,
    Knowing that smothered love flames outwardly: 
  Therefore, seek means, search out some privy way;
    Keep not the steed too long at idle play.