Unaltered by Sickness

Sickness, in vain thou dost invade
A Beauty that can never fade!
Could all thy malice but impair
One of the sweets which crown this fair,
Or steal the spirits from her eye,
Or kiss into a paler dye
The blushing roses of her cheek,
Our drooping hopes might justly seek
Redress from thee, and thou might'st save
Thousands of lovers from the grave:
But such assaults are vain, for she
Is too divine to stoop to thee;
Blest with a form as much too high
For any change, as Destiny,
Which no attempt can violate;
For what's her Beauty, is our Fate.