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15 Apr 2008, 10:12 pm / In love
The time when first I fell in love,
which now I must cry for;
the year where I lost such time
to extent my comfortable. The day where I saw too late
the follies of a lover;
the hour where I found such loss
as care cannot recover. And last, the minute of misfortune,
which makes me thus to bare
the miserable fruits of lover's suits,
which labour loses in vain: Doth make me sadly protest,
as I with pain do prove,
There is no time, year, day, nor hour,
nor minute, good to love.
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