My love is not a faded rose Nor music out of tune; Not bitterness, but sweetness come Too much, too quick, too soon. On beauty I was overfed Till I at last grew ill; And even as lips speak these words I taste it, dulcet, still. Kindness' milk I overdrank Quaffing it far too fast; Thusly, when drunk, I asked for more To find I had the last. The jesting I had overdone Glad stories overtold The last of which I have to voice Is this, love's food, grown cold. Take care, all epicures of love, Of whereupon you eat; Insure that you've welcome table Or least, of all, a seat.