Every thing doth pass away; There is danger in delay: Come, come, gather then the rose, Gather it, or it you lose! - Giles Fletcher

Both poles we burnt, whereon the world doeth turne,
The rownd of heaven, from earth unto the skies:
And nowe the seas we both intend to burne:
I with my bowe, and Licia with her eyes.

Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be!

If these by hope doe joye in their distresse,
And constant are, in hope to conquer tyme,
Then let not hope in us (sweete friend) be lesse,
And cause our love to wither in the Pryme.Let us conspyre, and time will have an end,
So both of us in time shall have a frend.