| 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. |
One Book a Week 