Sweetest bud of beauty, may
 No untimely frost decay
 Th' early glories which we trace
 Blooming in thy matchless face:
 But kindly opening, like the rose,
 Fresh beauties every day disclose,
 Such as by Nature are not shown
 In all the blossoms she has blown:
 And then, what conquest shall you make,
 Who hearts already daily take!
 Scorch'd in the morning with thy beams,
 How shall we bear those sad extremes
 Which must attend thy threat'ning eyes
 When thou shalt to thy noon arise?