Incautious
Youth
, why do'st thou so mis-place
Thy fine
Encomiums
on an e'er-blown Face;
Which after all the Varcnish of thy Quill,
Its
Pristine
wrinkles shew apparent still:
Nor is it in the power of
Youth to move
An Age-chill'd heart to and strokes of Love.
Then chuse some budding Beauty, which in time
May crown thy Wishes in thy blooming prime:
For nought can make a more preposterous show,
Than April's Flowers stuck on St. Micheal's Bow.
The conecrate thy first-born Sighs to me,
A supperannuated Deity;
Makes that Idolatry and deadly Sin,
Which otherwise had only Venial been.