Classic Poem

Do not, O do not prize thy beauty at too high a rate;
Love to be loved whilst thou art lovely, lest thou love too late.
Frowns print wrinkles in thy brows,
At which spiteful age doth smile,
Women in their froward vows
Glorying to beguile.

Wert thou the only world's-admired, thou canst love but one;
And many have before been loved, thou art not loved alone.
Couldst thou speak with heavenly grace,
Sappho might with thee compare;
Blush the roses in thy face,
Rosamund was as fair.

Pride is the canker that consumeth beauty in her prime.
They that delight in long debating feel the curse of time.
All things with the time do change,
That will not the time obey.
Some e'en to themselves seem strange
Thorough their own delay.