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.