Love Poems

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung,
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died
Small is the worth,
Of beauty from the light retired,
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not to blush so to be admired.
Then die - that she,
The common fate of all things rare,
May read in thee,
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair !