Classic Poem

Beautie (sweet Loue) is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh vpon the tender greene:
Cheeres for a time, but till the Sunne doth shew,
And straight tis gone as it had neuer beene.
Soone doth it fade that makes the fairest florish,
Short is the glory of the blushing Rose:
The hew which thou so carefully dost norish,
Yet which at length thou must be forc'd to lose.
When thou surcharg'd with burthen of thy yeeres,
Shalt bend thy wrinckles homeward to the earth,
And that in Beauties lease expir'd, appeares
The date of Age, the Kalends of our death.
But ah! no more, this must not be foretold,
For women grieue to thinke they must be old.