LXIX The Roses Pride
Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves
The wanton wind to sport himself presumes,
Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives
For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes!
Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon; 5
What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?
Thou’ art wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,
And passing proud a little colour makes thee.
Sir Richard Fanshawe.