Classic Poem

Stay cruel youth, rash stripling stay;
Fear'st thou in snow to lose thy way?
Suppose the powd'ring of my hair:
'Tis supposition makes us fair.
My brow in wreaths should never move
In thee disdain, but rather love;
Think but that art in pleats it laid,
And of it a fashion made.
Who fears winter with a fire?
I have more heat then in desire.
Look how the Elm and younger Vine,
Mark how the Oak and Ivy twine;
If thou'lt my vine, or Ivy be,
I'l be or Elm, or Oak to thee,
And if thy heat can melt my snow,
Those joyes, yet ebb, will overflow.