Discoloured, may decay.

As bloody drops on virgin snows,
So vies the lily with the rose
Full on your dimpled cheek;
But ah! the worm in lazy coil
May soon prey on this putrid spoil,
Or leap in loathsome freak.

Fond wooers come with flattering tale,
And load with sighs the passing gale,
And love-distracted rave:
But hark, fair maid! whate'er they say,
You're but a breathing mass of clay,
Fast ripening for the grave.

Behold how thievish Time has been!
Full eighteen summers you have seen,
And yet they seem a day?
Whole years, collected in Time's glass,
In silent lapse how soon they pass,
And steal your life away!

The flying hour none can arrest,
Nor yet recall one moment past,
And what more dread must seem
Is, that to-morrow's not your own--
Then haste! and ere your life has flown
The subtle hours redeem.