On you, my precious gold of time is spent,
Hence I, the richer, far, for spending, prove,
And, too, lament what made my heart content
Ere I, with you, endured sweet pains of love.
I'd suffer love ere I would celebrate
What those, far richer, yet define as life,
And would, in suffering, Love, dissipate
E'en what, in passion's throes, conjoins a wife.
But I, my Love, reluctantly would spare
Enough to make tomorrow seem a year
From just-past then, the time we dared to share
What proves our joy, love's aftermath, hence dear.
On you, I'd spend what makes me toil and sweat,
As I, detailing love, with you, would fret.