Poetical recreations | ||
64
TO MY Young Lover.
A SONG.
To praise sweet Youth, do thou forbear,
Where there is no desert;
For, alas, Encomiums here,
Are Jewels thrown i'th' dirt.
Where there is no desert;
For, alas, Encomiums here,
Are Jewels thrown i'th' dirt.
For I no more deserve Applause,
Now Youth and Beauty's fled;
Than a Tulip, or a Rose,
When its fair Leaves are shed.
Now Youth and Beauty's fled;
Than a Tulip, or a Rose,
When its fair Leaves are shed.
Howe'er I wish thy Praises may,
Like Prayers to Heaven born;
When holy Souls for Sinners pray,
Their Prayers on them return.
Like Prayers to Heaven born;
When holy Souls for Sinners pray,
Their Prayers on them return.
Poetical recreations | ||