Out of Catullus

Come and let us live my Deare,

Let us love and never feare,

What the sowrest Fathers say:

Brightest Sol that dies to day

Lives againe as blithe to morrow,

But if we darke sons of sorrow

Set; o then, how long a Night

Shuts the Eyes of our short light!

Then let amorous kisses dwell

On our lips, begin and tell

A Thousand, and a Hundred, score

An Hundred, and a Thousand more,

Till another Thousand smother

That, and that wipe of another.

Thus at last when we have numbred

Many a Thousand, many a Hundred;

Wee’l confound the reckoning quite,

And lose our selves in wild delight:

While our joyes so multiply,

As shall mocke the envious eye.