Speak not of roses when you talk of my love
For she is kinder than a flower of thorns
She carries no barbs to wound in your hug
Nor sits as winter sticks forlorn.
My love ne'er spites with clapsed closed buds
Her petals proud and face forever blooms
Her wise roots tap not the blood rich mud
Evercoloured beyond one sweated June
There is no sickly scent to suffocate
A curious close pressed nose
She lies not idle in staid estates
Oh name her not a common rose.
Gather all the flowers upon this earth
They make not half of my love's worth.
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