Dear, do not your fair beauty wrong
In thinking still you are too young.
The rose and lily in your cheek
Flourish, and no more ripening seek.
Inflaming beams shot from your eye
Do show Love’s midsummer is nigh.
Your cherry lip, red, soft and sweet,
Proclaims such fruit for taste is meet.
Love is still young, a bucksom boy,
And younglings are allowed to toy:
Then lose no time, for Love hath wings,
‖: And flies away :‖ (×3) from aged things.