Classic Poem

In such a Colour as the Morning Rose
Doth water'd with the Tears of Night disclose,
The blushing Kisses of Neæra shine
When they the humid Print retain of mine;
Round which the Beauties of her Face beset,
As when some white hand crops a Violet;
As Flowers with Cherries, that together wear
The Spring and Summers Livery, appear.
Unhappy! why now when thy kinde Lip warms
My Soul, am I constrain'd to quit thy Arms?
This Crimson Treasure ah reserve for Me,
Till Night return and bring Me back to Thee;
But if mean-time they any other seek,
May they become far paler then my Cheek.