| BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon. |
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| What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? |
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| Thou’rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, |
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| And passing proud a little colour makes thee. |
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| If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, |
5 |
| Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane; |
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| For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves, |
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| The sentence of thy early death contain. |
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| Some clown’s coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, |
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| If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn; |
10 |
| And many Herods lie in wait each hour |
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| To murder thee as soon as thou art born— |
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| Nay, force thy bud to blow—their tyrant breath |
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| Anticipating life, to hasten death! |
