FROM A CHILD.

Madam, as in some climes the warmer sun Makes it full summer ere the spring's begun, And with ripe fruit the bending boughs can load, Before our violets dare look abroad; So measure not by any common use The early love your brighter eyes produce. When lately your fair hand in woman's weed Wrapp'd my glad head, I wish'd me so indeed, That hasty time might never make me grow Out of those favours you afford me now; 10 That I might ever such indulgence find, And you not blush, nor think yourself too kind; Who now, I fear, while I these joys express, Begin to think how you may make them less. The sound of love makes your soft heart afraid, And guard itself, though but a child invade, And innocently at your white breast throw A dart as white-a ball of new fallen snow.