 | Oxford and Cambridge miscellany poems |  |
The Rose.
See, Sylvia, see this new-blown Rose!The Image of thy Blush,
Mark how it smiles upon the Bush,
And triumphs as it grows.
Oh pluck it not! we'll come anon;
Thou say'st: Alas! 'twill then be gone.
Now its Purple Beauty's spread,
Soon it will droop and fall,
And soon it will not be at all;
No fine things draw a length of Thread.
Then tell me, seems it not to say,
Come on, and crop me whilst you may?
| Oxford and Cambridge miscellany poems | |