ODE 8.
Ing we the Rose!
Than which no flower there grows
Is sweeter;
And aptly her compare
With what in that is rare:
A parallel none meeter.
Or made posies,
Of this that encloses
Such blisses:
That naturally flusheth,
As she blusheth
When she is robbed of kisses.
Or if strewed,
When with the morning dewed;
Or stilling;
Or how to sense exposed:
All which in her enclosed,
Each place with sweetness filling.
That most renowned
By Nature richly crowned
With yellow;
Of that delicious lair:
And as pure her hair,
Unto the same the fellow.
Fearing of harm;
Nature that flower doth arm
From danger:
The touch gives her offence,
But with reverence
Unto herself, a stranger.
The red, or white,
Or mixed, the sense delight,
Beholding,
In her complexion:
All which perfection,
Such harmony infolding,
That divided,
Ere it was decided
Which most pure,
Began the grievous War
Of York and Lancaster,
That did many years endure.
Conflicts as great
As were in all that heat,
I sustain:
By her, as many hearts
As men on either parts,
That with her eyes hath slain.
The Primrose flower,
The first of Flora's bower
Is placed:
So is She first, as best:
Though excellent the rest;
All gracing, by none graced.