Youth

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wanton’d with thy breakers.

Fame is the thirst of youth.

Did ye not hear it?—No! ’twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street. On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!

Green grow the rashes, O; Green grow the rashes, O; The sweetest hours that e’er I spend Are spent among the lasses, O.

How happy he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labor with an age of ease.

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o’er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway, That, hush’d in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

Youth’s the season made for joys, Love is then our duty.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathed smiles.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol’n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year.

He wears the rose Of youth upon him.

What is love? ’tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter. What’s to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

A very riband in the cap of youth.

At your age The heyday in the blood is tame, it’s humble.

You speak like a green girl, Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.

The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmask her beauty to the moon; Virtue itself ’scapes not calumnious strokes; The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent.

Now all the youth of England are on fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies.

He was indeed the glass Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves.

An unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractic’d; Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn.

I saw young Harry, with his beaver on.

Baited like eagles having lately bath’d… As full of spirit as the month of May, And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer.

But, Lord Crist! whan that it remembreth me Upon my yowthe, and on my jolitee, It tikleth me aboute myn herte roote. Unto this day it dooth myn herte boote That I have had my world as in my tyme.

O yonge, fresshe folkes, he or she, In which that love up groweth with youre age, Repeyreth hom fro worldly vanyte.