Doralicia’s Song

In tyme we see that siluer drops
The craggy stones make soft:
The slowest snaile in tyme, we see,
Doth creepe and clime aloft.

With feeble puffes the tallest pine
In tract of time doth fall:
The hardest hart in time doth yeeld
To Venus luring call.

Where chilling frost alate did nip,
There flasheth now a fire:
Where deepe disdaine bred noisome hate,
There kindleth now desire.

Time causeth hope to haue his hap,
What care in time not easde?
In time I loathd that now I loue,
In both content and pleasd.