Ah, no! the man who would not woo,
Were less than mortal, or were more.
The mossy rose that scents the sky,
By bee, by butterfly caress'd,
We leave not on the stalk to die,
But fondly snatch it to the breast
There, unsurpassed in sweets, it dwells;—
Unless the breast be Fanny's own:
There blooming, every bloom excels;—
Except of Fanny's blush alone.