The time when first I fell in love, Which now I must lament; The year wherein I lost such time To compass my content. The day wherein I saw too late The follies of a lover; The hour wherein I found such loss As care cannot recover. And last, the minute of mishap, Which makes me thus to plain The doleful fruits of lover's suits, Which labour lose in vain: Doth make me solemnly protest, As I with pain do prove, There is no time, year, day, nor hour, Nor minute, good to love.