Classic Poem

Tell me, my Caelia, why so coy,
Of men so much afraid;
Caelia, 'tis better far to die
A mother than a maid.

The rose, when past its damask hue,
Is always out of favour:
And when the plum hath lost its blue,
It loses too its flavour.

To vernal flow'rs the rolling years
Returning beauty bring;
But faded once, thou'lt bloom no more,
Nor know a second spring.