TO MY Young Lover

INcautious Youth, why do'st thou so mis-place
Thy fine Encomiums on an o'er-blown Face;
Which after all the Varnish 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 any 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 preposterou• show,
Than April Flowers stuck on St. Michael's Bow.
To consecrate thy first-born Sighs to me,
A superannuated Deity;
Makes that Idolatry and deadly Sin,
Which otherwise had only Venial been.