Classic Poem

False Love, too long thou hast delayed,
Too late I make my choice;
Yet win for me that precious maid,
And bid my heart rejoice,
Then shall mine eyes shoot youthful fire,
My cheek with triumph glow,
And other maids that glance desire,
Which I on one bestow.

Make her with smile divinely bland
Beam sunshine o'er my face,
And Time shall touch with gentlest hand
What she hath deigned to grace;
O'er scanty locks full wreaths I'll wear;
No wrinkled brow to shade,
For joy will smooth the furrows there,
Which earlier griefs have made.

Though sports of youth be tedious toil,
When youth has passed away,
I'll cast aside the martial spoil
With her light locks to play;
Yea turn, sweet maid, from tented field
To rove where dewdrops shine,
Nor care what hand the sceptre wield,
So thou wilt grant me thine.