If now in competition with your hair
the burnished golden sun shines forth in vain,
and if your snowy brow amid the plain
looks down in triumph on the lily fair,

If now to pluck those lips more eyes are fain
than gillyflowers that blossom in spring air,
if your fine neck is pure beyond compare,
purer than crystal, with a mild disdain:

rejoice in hair, and neck, and lips, and brow;
for time shall turn and fade your palmy day
of pinks and lilies, gold and crystal show,

to silver and to violet's decay.
Even yourself shall altogether go
to earth, smoke, dust, and shade, and pass away.