Epigram
Beauty, a silver dew that falls in May;
Love is an egg-shell, with that humour filled;
Desire, a winged boy, coming that way,
Delights and dallies with it in the field.
The fiery sun draws up the shell on high;
Beauty decays, Love dies, Desire doth fly.
Love is an egg-shell, with that humour filled;
Desire, a winged boy, coming that way,
Delights and dallies with it in the field.
The fiery sun draws up the shell on high;
Beauty decays, Love dies, Desire doth fly.
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