Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew Whose short refresh upon the tender green Cheers for a time but till the Sun doth show,
And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish;
Short is the glory of the blushing Rose,
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish Yet which at length thou must be forc'd to lose.
When thou surcharg'd with burden of thy years Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,
When Time hath made a passport for thy fears,
Dated in age the Kalends of our death— But, ah, no more: this hath been often told,
And women grieve to think they must be old.
