Classic Poem

Sweet, doe not thy beauty wrong
By thinking still thou art too young,
The rose & lilly in each cheeke
Flourish, & noe more ripenesse seeke.
Those flaming beames, shott from thine eye,
Doe shew Loves Midsomer is nigh.
Thy cherry cheekes red, soft & sweet
Proclaim such fruit for use is meet.
Love's still young, & a buxome boy,
And young things be allowed to toy,
Then lose no time, for love hath wings,
And flies away from aged things.