Upon Silvia, a Mistresse

When some shall say, Faire once my Silvia was;
Thou wilt complaine, False now's thy Looking-glasse:
Which renders that quite tarnisht, which was green;
And Priceless now, what Peerless once had been:
Upon thy Forme more wrinkles yet will fall,
And comming downe, shall make no noise at all.
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