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! |