’Tis sooner past; ’tis sooner done
Than summer rain, or winter’s sun;
Most fleeting when it is most dear!
’Tis gone, while we but say ’tis here.
These curious locks, so aptly twined,
Whose every hair a soul doth bind,
Wilt change their auburn hue, and grow
White, and cold as winter’s snow.
That eye which now is Cupid’s nest,
Will prove his grave, and all the rest