ROBERT WEVER

IN a harbour grene aslepe whereas I lay, The byrdes sang swete in the middes of the day, I dreamèd fast of mirth and play: In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure. Methought I walked still to and fro, And from her company I could not go— But when I waked it was not so: In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure. Therefore my hart is surely pyght Of her alone to have a sight Which is my joy and hartes delight: In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.