SONNET XXIII

As, love, the lily and purpureal rose
Show their sweet colours on thy chaste warm cheek,
Thy radiant looks, angelically meek,
Serene the tempest to divine repose,

And as thy hair, which for its birthright chose
The opal's dye, upon the whitest neck
Waved by the winds of heaven without a check,
In exquisite disorder falls and flows;

Gather the rich fruit of thy mirthful spring,
Ere angry Time around thy temples shed
The snows of hasting age ; his icy wing

Will wither the fresh rose, however red;
And changing not his custom, quickly change
The glory of all objects in his range.