To My Young Lover

Incautious Youth, why do'st thou so mis-place

Thy fine Encomiums on an o’er-blown Face;

Which after all the Varnish of thy Quill,

Its Pristine wrinkles shew apparent still:

Nor is it in the power of Youth to move

An Age-chill’d heart to any strokes of Love.

Then chuse some budding Beauty, which in time

May crown thy Wishes in thy blooming prime:

For nought can make a more preposterous show,

Than April’s Flowers stuck on St. Michael’s Bow.

To consecrate thy first-born Sighs to me,

A superannuated Deity;

Makes that Idolatry and deadly Sin,

Which otherwise had only Venial been.