Sonnet Fresh spring the herald of loves mighty king, In whose cote armour richly are displayed All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colours gloriously arrayed. Go to my love, Where she is carelesse laid, Yet in her winters bowre: Tell her the joyous time will not be staid Unlesse she do him by the forelock take, Bid her therefore her selfe soon ready make, To wait on love amongst his lovely crew. Where every one that misseth then her make, Shall be by him amercest with penance dew. Make hast therefore sweet love, whilest it is prime, For none can call againe the passed time.