Anonymous

THE TIME when first I fell in love,

Which now I must lament;

The year wherein I lost such time

To compass my content;

The day wherein I saw too late

The follies of a lover;

The hour wherein I found such loss

As care cannot recover;

And last, the minute of mishap

Which makes me thus to plain;

The doleful fruits of lovers’ suits,

Which labour lose in vain:

Doth make me solemnly protest,

As I with pain do prove,

There is no time, year, day, nor hour,

Nor minute, good to love.