Samuel Daniel (1562–1619)

LOOK, Delia, how we ’steem the half-blown rose

The image of thy blush and summer’s honour,

Whilst in her tender green she doth inclose

That pure, sweet beauty Time bestows upon her.

No sooner spreads her glory to the air,

But straight her full-blown pride is in declining;

She then is scorned that late adorned the fair:

So clouds thy beauty, after fairest shining.

No April can revive thy withered flowers,

Whose blooming grace adorns thy glory now;

Swift, speedy Time, feathered with flying hours,

Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.

O let not then such riches waste in vain,

But love, whilst that thou may’st be loved again.