Beloved, Those Who Moan Of Love'S Brief Day Shall Find But Little Grace With Me, I Guess, Who Know Too Well This Passion'S Tenderness To Deem That It Shall Lightly Pass Away, A Moment'S Interlude In Life'S Dull Play; Though Many Loves Have Lingered To Distress, So Shall Not Ours, Sweet Lady, Ne'ertheless, But Deepen With Us Till Both Heads Be Grey. For Perfect Love Is Like A Fair Green Plant, That Fades Not With Its Blossoms, But Lives On, And Gentle Lovers Shall Not Come To Want, Though Fancy With Its First Mad Dream Be Gone; Sweet Is The Flower, Whose Radiant Glory Flies, But Sweeter Still The Green That Never Dies.