Classic Poem

Fly not, sweet, from my side,
Scorning the snow of my tresses;
Neither reject my caresses,
O fair in thy freshness and pride,
Because thou'rt a beauty, my Phyllis.
Frail thine each soft charm that glows is;
Time will thy bright hair make hoary.
In chaplets behold how the lilies
Blend their white snow-shining glory
With the orient flush of the roses.