by William Alexander
Ah, thou (my Loue) wilt lose thy selfe at last,
Who can to match thy selfe with none agree:
Thou ow'st thy father Nephewes, and to me
A recompence for all my passions past.
Ah, why should'st thou thy beauties treasure wast,
Which will begin for to decay I see?
Earst Daphne did become a barren tree,
Because she was not halfe so wise as chast:
And all the fairest things do soonest fade,
Which O, I feare thou with repentance trie;
The roses blasted are, the lillies dye,
And all do languish in the sommers shade:
Yet will I grieue to see those flowers fall downe,
Which for my temples should haue fram'd a crowne.
Last updated January 14, 2019