Am I dispis'd because you say,
and I believe, that I am gray?
know, Lady, you have but your day, 
and night will come, when men will swear
Time has spilt snow upon your hair:
Then when in your glass you seek,
but find no rose-bud in your cheek,
no, nor the bed to give the shew,
where such a rare Carnation grew;
and such a smiling Tulip too.

Ah, then, too late, close in your chamber keeping,
it will be told, that you are old, 
by those true tears y'are weeping.