To a Very Young Lady

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 shown
     In all the blossoms she has blown:
     And then, what conquest shall you make,
   Who hearts already daily take!
   Scorch'd in the morning with thy beams,
   How shall we bear those sad extremes
   Which must attend thy threat'ning eyes
   When thou shalt to thy noon arise?