Classic Poem

ALBA thinkst thou, thy Month shall still be MAY,
And that thy Colour fresh, still faire will be?
That Time and Fortune will not weare away
Beautie, which God and Nature lends to thee?
Yes, yes, that white and red, thy Cheekes now show,
Shall quicklie change, and blacke and yellow grow.

The Giniper the longer it doth flower,
The older still it waxeth, bowing still,
And that sweete face of thine, which now hath power
Whole worlds with wondering at the same to fill,
Shall (though it now sauns blemish be) a Staine,
Hereafter with thicke wrinkeled Clifts remaine.

Great care to keepe this Beautie fraile must be,
Which we (God knowes) a small time doe enjoy,
Doe what we can, we lose it suddenle;
Why, then, being courted shouldst thou seeme so coy,
Fortunes wings made of Times feathers neere stay,
But eare thou them canst measure, flit away.

Then be not over hard, like changeles Fate,
But let my Cries force thee (at last) relent,
Doe not oppose thy selfe too obstinate
Gainst him, whose time to honor thee is spent:
Ah let me speake the trueth (though somewhat bold)
Though now th'art young, thou one day must be old.