TO MY Young Lover. A SONG

TO praise sweet Youth, do thou forbear,
Where there is no desert;
For, alas, Encomiums here,
Are Iewels thrown i'th' dirt.

For I no more deserve Applause,
Now Youth and Beauty's fled;
Than a Tulip, or a Rose,
When its fair Leaves are shed.

Howe'er I wish thy Praises may,
Like Prayers to Heaven born;
When holy Souls for Sinners pray,
Their Prayers on them return.