SWEET, be not proud or those two eyes
Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud, that you can see
All hearts your captives; yours yet free:
Be you not proud of that rich hair
Which wantons with the lovesick air;
Whenas that ruby which you wear,
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone
When all your world of beauty's gone.
FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.
What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: