Oh quit thy wonted Scorn, relentless Fair!
E're, lingring long, I perish through Despair.
Had Rosalind been Mistress of my Mind,
Tho' not so fair, she would have been more kind.
O think, unwitting Maid, while yet is Time,
How flying Years impair our youthful Prime!
Thy Virgin Bloom will not for ever stay;
And Flow'rs, tho' left ungath'red, will decay.
The Flow'rs anew returning Seasons bring;
But Beauty faded has no second Spring.