Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.
Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
UNKINDNESS
Lord, make me coy and tender to offend:
In friendship, first I think if that agree
Which I intend
Unto my friend’s intent and end;
I would not use a friend as I use Thee.
If any touch my friend or his good name,
It is my honour and my love-to free
His blasted fame
From the least spot or thought of blame;
I could not use a friend as I use Thee.
My friend may spit upon my curious floor;
Would he have gold? I lend it instantly;
But let the poor,
And Thee within them, starve at door;
I cannot use a friend as I use Thee.
When that my friend pretendeth to a place,
I quit my interest, and leave it free;
But when Thy grace
Sues for my heart, I Thee displace;
Nor would I use a friend as I use Thee.
Yet can a friend what Thou hast done fulfil?
O, write in brass, ‘My God upon a tree
His blood did spill,
Only to purchase my good-will’;
Yet use I not my foes as I use Thee.