Though it the wealth of Nature owes,
It is opprest, and bends with dew.
Which shewes, though fate
May promise still to warme our lippes,
And keepe our eyes from an ecclips;
It will our pride with teares abate.
Poor silly flowre!
Though in thy beauty thou presume,
And breath which doth the spring perfume;
Thou may'st be cropt this very houre.