Let us go see, dear, if the rose,Which but this morning did uncloseHer crown of crimson in the sun,Have not this eventide laid downThe glories of her purple gownAnd colour peered (save thine) of none.
Alack, love, in how short a spaceSee, now, she hath on the earth's faceHer beauties scattered, wellaway!Ah Nature, true stepmother thou,That such a flower dost but allow,To live and dure for one poor day!
So, if you will believe me, dear,Whilst Spring yet flowers and life's yearIs in its rathest green for you,Cull, cull the roses of your youth;For eld your beauties, without ruth.Away, as from the rose, will do.
