John Fletcher (1579–1625)

COME hither, you that love, and hear me sing

Of joys still growing,

Green, fresh, and lusty as the pride of spring,

And ever blowing.

Come hither, youths that blush, and dare not know

What is desire;

And old men, worse than you, that cannot blow

One spark of fire;

And with the power of my enchanting song,

Boys shall be able men, and old men young.

Come hither, you that hope, and you that cry;

Leave off complaining;

Youth, strength, and beauty, that shall never die,

Are here remaining.

Come hither, fools, and blush you stay so long

From being blest;

And mad men, worse than you, that suffer wrong,

Yet seek no rest;

And in an hour, with my enchanting song,

You shall be ever pleased, and young maids long.