SONNET XXIII

While yet the lily and the rose
display their colours in your cheek,
your fiery glance, though often meek,
conquers and burns where'er it goes;

while yet your hair, from finest seams
the choicest gold, that wanton air
may scatter and toss about your fair
white throat, in quick disorder streams;

enjoy your gay spring's sweetest fruit
before stern Time's relentless snows
have blanched the beauty of your head.

The icy wind will fade the rose,
Immutably, Time must transmute
and how may swift Age be gainsaid?