To a Very Young Lady
1 Sweetest bud of beauty, may
by Sir George Etherege
2 No untimely frost decay
3 Th' early glories which we trace
4 Blooming in thy matchless face:
5 But kindly opening, like the rose,
6 Fresh beauties every day disclose,
7 Such as by Nature are not shown
8 In all the blossoms she has blown:
9 And then, what conquest shall you make,
10 Who hearts already daily take!
11 Scorch'd in the morning with thy beams,
12 How shall we bear those sad extremes
13 Which must attend thy threat'ning eyes
14 When thou shalt to thy noon arise?