Delia: Sonnet 45

BEautie (sweet Loue,) is like the morning dewe,
VVhose short refresh vpon the tender greene:
Cheeres for a time but till the Sunne doth shew,
And straight tis gone as it had neuer beene.
Soone doth it sade that makes the fairest florish,
Short is the glory of the blushing Rose:
The hewe which thou so carefully dost nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forc'd to lose.
VVhen thou surcharg'd with burthen of thy yeeres,
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,
VVhen time hath made a pasport for thy seares,
Dated in age the Kalends of our death.
But ah no more, this hath beene often tolde,
And women grieue to thinke they must be olde.