  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. |
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