The Rose
I.
Sweet serene skye-like Flower,
Haste to adorn her Bower:
From thy long clowdy bed,
Shoot forth thy damaske head.
II.
New-startled blush of Flora!
The griefe of pale Aurora,
Who will contest no more ;
Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.
III.
Vermilion Ball that’s given
From lip to lip in Heaven ;
Love’s Couches cover-led:
Haste, haste, to make her bed.
IV.
Dear Offspring of pleas’d Venus,
And Jollie, plumpe Silenus ;
Haste, haste, to decke the Haire
Of th’ only, sweetly Faire.
V.
See! Rosie is her Bower,
Her floore is all this Flower ;
Her Bed a Rosie nest
By a Bed of Roses prest.
VI.
But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright Tresses?
Ah! I have found I feare ;
Because her Cheekes are neere.
