Love me little, love me long,
Is the burden of my song;
Love that is too hot and strong
Burneth soon to waste;
Still I would not have thee cold,
Or backward, or too bold,
For love that lasteth till 'tis old
Fadeth not in haste.
Winter's cold, or summer's heat,
Autumn tempests on it beat,
It can never know defeat,
Never can rebel;
Such the love that I would gain,
Such love, I tell thee plain,
That thou must give or love in vain,
So to thee farewell.
Circa 1610.