(untitled)

THE painted Apples that adorn,
Of yon'd fair Tree, the Airy top,
And seems our dull approach to scorn,
From their weak Stalk must one day drop;
And out of reach of Mortals plac't,
Be the vile food of Worms at last;
Thus ends of Humane things the Pride,
Born down Times ever-flowing Tide.

Thy Matchless Beauty, that we all
Now with such heat and passion court,
Though kept from worthy Lovers, shall
Confess its Tyranny but short:
Then do not Love with Anger meet,
Nor cruel be, to seem discreet:
Shunning what Nature does intend,
Things seldom meet a Nobler …nd.