I do but ask that you be always fair 
That I forever may continue kind; 
Knowing me what I am, you should not dare 
To lapse from beauty ever, nor seek to bind 
My alterable mood with lesser cords; 
Weeping and such soft matters must invite 
To further vagrancy; and bitter words 
Chafe soon to irremediable flight, 
Wherefore I pray you if you love me dearly, 
Less dear to hold me than your own bright charms, 
Whence it may fall that until death, or nearly, 
I shall not move to struggle from your arms: 
Fade if you must,--I would but bid you be 
Like the sweet year, doing all things graciously.