To a very Young Lady.

SWeetest bud of Beauty, may
No untimely frost decay
Th' early glories which we trace,
Blooming in thy matchless face;
But kindly opening, like the Rose,
Fresh beauties every day disclose,
Such as by Nature are not shewn
In all the blossoms she has blown:
And then what conquest shall you make,
Who hearts already dayly take;
Scorcht in the Morning with thy beams,
How shall we bear those sad extreams
Which must attend thy threatning eyes
When thou shalt to thy Noon arise