SONG 3.—The Rose.
I
How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flow'r!
The glory of April and May!
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.
II
Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field;
When its leaves are all dead, & fine colours are lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
III
So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Tho' they bloom and look gay like the rose;
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain;
Time kills them as fast he goes.
IV
Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;
But gain a good name by well doing my duty;
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.