Classic Poem

Looke, Delia , how wee steeme the half-blowne Rose,
The image of thy blush, and Sommer's honour,
Whilst in her tender greene shee doth inclose
The pure sweet beauty Time bestowes upon her:
No sooner spreades her glory in the ayre,
But straight her ful-blowne pride is in declining;
Shee then is scorn'd, that late adorn'd the fayre:
So clowdes thy beautie, after fairest shining.
No Aprill can revive thy withred flowers,
Whose blooming grace adornes thy glory now:
Swift speedy Time, feathred with flying howers,
Dissolves the beautie of the fairest brow.
O let not then such riches waste in vaine;
But love whilst that thou maist be lov'd againe.