To My Young Lover

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.

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