The time when first I fell in love, Which now I must lament;The year wherein I lost such time To compass my content.
The day wherein I saw too late The follies of a lover;The hour wherein I found such loss As care cannot recover.
And last, the minute of mishap, Which makes me thus to plainThe doleful fruits of lover's suits, Which labour lose in vain:
Doth make me solemnly protest, As I with pain do prove,There is no time, year, day, nor hour, Nor minute, good to love.
