Rose-cheeked Laura, come; / Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's / Silent music, either other/ Sweetly gracing.

There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow. There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.

The man of life upright,/ Whose guiltless heart is free/ From all dishonest deeds/ Or thought of vanity.

Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly; to every day we live, a day we die.

Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet; / Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet.

The Summer hath his joys, / And Winter his delights. / Though Love and all his pleasures are but toys, / They shorten tedious nights.