To Electra.

'Tis evening, my sweet, And dark, let us meet; Long time w'ave here been a-toying, And never, as yet, That season could get Wherein t'ave had an enjoying. For pity or shame, Then let not love's flame Be ever and ever a-spending; Since now to the port The path is but short, And yet our way has no ending. Time flies away fast, Our hours do waste, The while we never remember How soon our life, here, Grows old with the year That dies with the next December.