Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:--
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Within his sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:--
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Golden Treasury
