The sea hath many thousand sands, The sun hath motes as many; The sky is full of stars, and Love As full of woes as any; Believe me, that do know the elf, And make no trial by thyself. It is in truth a pretty toy For babes to play withal; But O, the honies of our youth Are oft our age's gall: Self-proof in time will make thee know He was a prophet told you so. A prophet that, Cassandra-like, Tells truth without belief; For head strong Youth will run his race, Although his goal be grief, Love's martyr, when his heat is past, Proves Care's confessor at the last.