The blushing rose and purple flower, Let grow too long, are soonest blasted; Dainty fruit, though sweet, will sour, And rot in ripeness, left untasted. Yet here is one more sweet than these; The more you taste, the more she'll please. Beauty that's enclosed with ice, Is a shadow chaste as rare; Then how much those sweets entice, That have issue full as fair! Earth cannot yield from all her powers One equal for dame Venus' bowers. |