Classic Poem

1

Tush! never tell me, I'm too young
For loving, or too Green,
She stayes at least seven years too long
That's wedded at fourteen
Age and Discretion fit
Grave Matrons, whose desires and youths are past.
Love needs not, nor has wit
They in whose youthful breast dwells nought but frost
Can only mourn the dayes, and joyes, they've lost.

2

Lambs bring forth Lambs, and Doves bring Doves
As soon as they'r begotten:
Then why should Ladies linger loves,
As if not ripe till rotten
'Tis envious age perswades
This tedious heresy for men to woe
Stale Nimphs and Vestal maids,
While they in modesty must answer No
Late Love, like late Repentance, seldom's true.

3

Gray hairs are fitter for the Grave
Than for the bridal bed;
What pleasure can a lover have
In a whither'd Maidenhead?
Dry bones and rotten limbs
Make Hymens Temple turn an Hospital:
Age all our beauty dimms.
Though Lands must not till one and twenty fall,
The laws to love prescribe no time at all.

4

Nature's exalted in our time;
And what our Grandames then
At four and twenty scarce could climbe,
We can arrive at ten
Youth of it self doth bring us
Provocatives within, and we do scorn
Love-powders and Eringoes
Cupid himself's a child, and 'twill be sworn,
Lovers like poets, are not made, but born.