To a Very Young Lady

Sweetest bud of beauty, mayNo untimely frost decayTh' early glories which we traceBlooming in thy matchless face:But kindly opening, like the rose,Fresh beauties every day disclose,Such as by Nature are not shownIn 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 extremesWhich must attend thy threat'ning eyesWhen thou shalt to thy noon arise?