Whilst it is prime

By Edmund Spenser

1552-1599

FRESH Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are displayd
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayd--
Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one, that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
         Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime;
         For none can call againe the passed time.

DayPoems Poem No. 81
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/81.html">Whilst it is prime by Edmund Spenser</a>

The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor

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