 | Flower o' the thorn |  |
RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS.
SWEET, if you live, you will grow bowed and grey;And when a worn old wife you are, with book
And broidery seated in the chimney-nook,
You will bethink you then of what I say
And curse yourself for casting love away.
Far better,—no relent old age will brook,
—With favour now on me it were to look
And love me now, whilst yet your age is May.
For I can keep your eyes for ever blue;
I can immortal make your golden hair,
Your coral lips; yea, I can render you
Immune to Fate's inexorable shears
And with my songs forfend from you, my fair,
Th'irreparable outrage of the years.
| Flower o' the thorn | |