Oh! see those cherries—though once so glowing,
They’ve lain too long on the sun-bright wall;
And mark! already their bloom is going;
Too soon they’ll wither, too soon they’ll fall.
Once, caught by their blushes, the light bird flew round,
Oft on their ruby lips leaving love’s wound;
But now he passes them, ah! too knowing
To taste wither’d cherries, when fresh may be found.
Old Time thus fleetly his course is running;
If bards were not moral, how maids would go wrong!
And thus thy beauties, now sunn’d and sunning,
Would wither if left on the rose-tree too long.
Then love while thou’rt lovely—e’en I should be glad
So sweetly to save thee from ruin so sad;
But, oh! delay not—we bards are too cunning
To sigh for old beauties when young may be had.