Thou art so fair, and yong withall,
thouy kindl'st yong desires in me,
restoreing life to leaves that fall, 
and fight to Eyes that hardly see,
halfe those fresh Beauties bloom in thee.

Those under sev'rall Hearbs and Flowr's
Disguis'd, were all Medea gave,
When she recal'd Times flying bowrs,
And aged Aelon from his grave,
For Beauty can both kill and save.

Youth it enflames, but age it cheers,
I would go back, but not return,
To twenty but to twice those yeers;
Not blaze, but ever constant burn,
For fear my Cradle prove my Urn.