Sweet Cupid, ripen her desire

Sweet Cupid, ripen her desire,
Thy joyful harvest may begin;
If age approach a little nigher,
'Twill be too late to get it in.

Cold Winter storms lay standing Corn,
Which once too ripe will never rise,
And lovers wish themselves unborn,
When all their joys lie in their eyes.

Then, sweet, let us embrace and kiss:
Shall beauty shale upon the ground?
If age bereave us of this bliss,
Then will no more such sport be found.