Lovers, a little of this your happy time
Give to the thought of us who were as you,
That we, whose dearest passion in your prime
Is but a winter garment, may renew
Our love in yours, our flesh in your desire,
Our tenderness in your discovering kiss,
For we are half the fuel of your fire,
As ours was fed by Marc and Beatrice.
Remember us, and, when you too are dead,
Our prayer with yours shall fall upon love’ s spring
That all our ghostly loves be comforted
In those yet later lover’ s love-making;
So shall oblivion bring his dust to spill
On brain and limbs, and we be lovers still.