Sweet rose, in air whose odours wave,
And colour charms the eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou, alas! must die!
Sweet spring, of days and roses made,
Whose charms for beauty vie;
Thy days depart, thy roses fade—
Thou, too, alas! must die!
Be wise, then, christian, while you may,
For swiftly time is flying;