Classic Poem

Dear Cynthia, though thou bear'st the name
— Of the pale queen of night,
Who changing yet is still the same,
— Renewing still her light:
Who monthly doth herself conceal,
— And her bright face doth hide,
That she may to Endymion steal,
— And kiss him unespied:

Do not thou so, not being sure,
— When this thy beauty 's gone,
Thou such another canst procure
— And wear it as thine own;
For the by-sliding silent hours,
— Conspirators with grief,
May crop thy beauty's lovely flowers,
— Time being a sly thief:

Which with his wings will fly away
— And will return no more;
As having got so rich a prey,
— Nature can not restore.
Reserve thou then and do not waste
— That beauty which is thine,
Cherish those glories which thou hast,
— Let not grief make thee pine.

Think that the lily we behold,
— Or J u ly-flower may
Flourish, although the mother mould
— That bred them be away:
There is no cause, nor yet no sense,
— That dainty fruits should not,
Though the tree die, and wither, whence
— The apricots were got.

Dear Cynthia, though thou bear'st the name
— Of the pale queen of night,
Who changing yet is still the same,
— Renewing still her light:
Who monthly doth herself conceal,
— And her bright face doth hide,
That she may to Endymion steal,
— And kiss him unespied:

Do not thou so, not being sure,
— When this thy beauty 's gone,
Thou such another canst procure
— And wear it as thine own;
For the by-sliding silent hours,
— Conspirators with grief,
May crop thy beauty's lovely flowers,
— Time being a sly thief:

Which with his wings will fly away
— And will return no more;
As having got so rich a prey,
— Nature can not restore.
Reserve thou then and do not waste
— That beauty which is thine,
Cherish those glories which thou hast,
— Let not grief make thee pine.

Think that the lily we behold,
— Or J u ly-flower may
Flourish, although the mother mould
— That bred them be away:
There is no cause, nor yet no sense,
— That dainty fruits should not,
Though the tree die, and wither, whence
— The apricots were got.