Anonymous

THE SEA hath many thousand sands,

The sun hath motes as many;

The sky is full of stars, and Love

As full of woes as any:

Believe me, that do know the elf,

And make no trial by thyself.

It is in truth a pretty toy

For babes to play withal;

But O, the honies of our youth

Are oft our age’s gall:

Self-proof in time will make thee know

He was a prophet told thee so:

A prophet that, Cassandra-like,

Tells truth without belief;

For headstrong youth will run his race,

Although his goal be grief:

Love’s martyr, when his heat is past,

Proves Care’s confessor at the last.