FResh spring the herald of loues mighty king, <br />In whose cote armour richly are displayd, <br />all sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring <br />in goodly colours gloriously arrayd. <br />Goe to my loue, where she is carelesse layd, <br />yet in her winters bowre not well awake: <br />tell her the ioyous time wil not be staid <br />vnlesse she doe him by the forelock take. <br />Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make, <br />to wayt on loue amongst his louely crew: <br />where euery one that misseth then her make, <br />shall be by him amearst with penance dew. <br />Make hast therefore sweet loue, whilest it is prime, <br />for none can call againe the passed time.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxx-2/
