Lost in the fold of lovers wreathes,
The violet enchants the sent,
When earely in the Spring she breaths.
But winter comes and makes each flowre
Shrinke from the pillow where it growes,
Or an intruding cold hath powre
To scorne the perfume of the Rose.
Our sences like false glasses show
Smooth beauty where browes wrinkled are,
And makes the cosen'd fancy glow.