Classic Poem

Beautie (sweet Love) is like the morning dewe
Whose short refresh upon the tender greene
Cheeres for a time but till the Sunne doth shew,
And straight tis gone as it had never beene.
Soone doth it fade that makes the fairest florish;
Short is the glory of the blushing Rose:
The hewe which thou so carefully dost nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forc'd to lose
When thou surcharg'd with burthen of thy yeeres,
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth;
When time hath made a pasport for thy feares,
Dated in age, the Kalends of our death —
But ah, no more, this hath beene often tolde,
And women grieve to thinke they must be olde.