Richard Lovelace

The Rose


Sweet serene skye-like Flower,
Haste to adorn her Bower:
From thy long clowdy bed,
Shoot forth thy damaske head.


New-startled blush of Flora!
The griefe of pale Aurora,
Who will contest no more;
Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.


Vermilion Ball that's given
From lip to lip in Heaven;
Love's Couches cover-led:
Haste, haste, to make her bed.


Dear Offspring of pleas'd Venus,
And Jollie, plumpe Silenus;
Haste, haste, to decke the Haire
Of th' only, sweetly Faire.


See! Rosie is her Bower,
Her floore is all this Flower;
Her Bed a Rosie nest
By a Bed of Roses prest.


But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright Tresses?
Ah! I have found I feare;
Because her Cheekes are neere. 

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