A Dialogue betwixt Time and a Pilgrim

pilgrim: Agèd man, that mows these fields.
time: Pilgrim, speak; what is thy will?
pilgrim: Whose soil is this, that such sweet pasture yields?
Or who art thou, whose foot stands never still?
Or where am I?
time:In love.
pilgrim: His Lordship lies above.
time: Yes, and below, and round about
Wherein all sorts of flowers are growing
Which, as the early Spring puts out,
Time falls as fast a-mowing.
pilgrim: If thou art Time, these flowers have lives,
And then I fear
Under some lily she I love
May now be growing there.
time: And in some thistle or some spire of grass
My scythe thy stalk before hers come may pass.
pilgrim: Wilt thou provide it may?
pilgrim: Allege the cause.
time: Because Time cannot alter but obey Fate's laws.
chorus: Then happy those whom Fate, that is the stronger,
Together twists their threads, and yet draws hers the longer.
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