html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Sweetest Bud of Beauty, may
No untimely Frost decay
Th' early glories which we trace,
Blooming in thy matchless Face;
But kindly opening, like the Rose,
Fresh Beauties every day disclose,
Such as by Nature are not shewn
In all the Blossoms she has blown:
And then what conquest shall you make,
Who hearts already daily take;
Scorcht in the Morning with thy beams,
How shall we bear those sad extreams
Which must attend thy threatning Eyes,
When thou shalt to thy Noon arise.