Thomas Flatman (1637–1688)

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

Drowned in a briny ocean of despair.

You think your beauties are above

The poet’s brain and painter’s 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 experienced rebel, Time,

And in his squadron ’s Poverty;

There’s Age that brings along with him

A terrible artillery:

And if against all these thou keep’st thy crown,

The usurper Death will make thee lay it down.