Be not too proud, imperious Dame, Your charms are transitory things, May melt, while you at Heaven aim, Like Icarus's Waxen Wings; And you a part in his misfortune bear, Drown'd in a briny Ocean of despair. Your think your beauties are above, The Poets Brain, and Painters Hand, As if upon the Throne of Love You only should the World command: Yet know, though you presume your title true, There are pretenders, that will Rival you. There's an experienc'd Rebel, Time, And in his Squadrons Poverty; There's Age that brings along with him A terrible Artillery: And if against all these thou keep'st thy Crown, Th' Usurper Death will make thee lay it down. |