You are a tulip seen today, |
But (dearest) of so short a stay |
That where you grew scarce man can say. |
You are a lovely July-flower |
Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower |
Will force you hence, and in an hour. |
You are a sparkling rose i’th’bud, |
Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood |
Can show where you or grew or stood. |
You are a full-spread, fair-set vine, |
And can with tendrils love entwine, |
Yet dried ere you distil your wine. |
You are like balm enclosed (well) |
In amber, or some crystal shell, |
Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell. |
You are a dainty violet, |
Yet wither’d ere you can be set |
Within a virgin’s coronet. |
You are the queen all flowers among, |
But die you must (fair maid) ere long, |
As he, the maker of this song. |