To Idera. Age in a Looking-glass

DO not, haughty Nymph, disdain
The Incense of an Humble Swain!
What thô you're Great? what thô you're Fair?
Age and Death will not spare.
A furrow'd Cheek, a wrinkled Chin,
An old tough Hide, a Saffron Skin,
Sore, Rheumy Eyes, the Senses gone,
Fal'n Jaws, nothing but skin and bone,
The Picture of a Skeleton,
May be thought something like a Face,
To one that loves the former Grace;
Apollo scorns a cold Embrace.
The like Marpessa chuse a Joy,
Not transient, nor apt to cloy:
A constant Love, that's like to last,
Thô Clouds and Storms should overcast.
Apollo takes you for a time,
And only courts to taste your Prime:
A God too goodly to engage
His Faith to Females for an Age:
Must through all Cupid's Labyrinths range,
His Love as often as his Visage change;
But Idas, thô a Mortal, yet may prove
Immortal in his Love:
None can like Idas constant be,
And none like Idas can resemble Me.