And since thou can with more than one,
Thou’rt worthy to be kissed by none.
The morning rose that untouched stands,
Armed with her briars, how sweetly smells
But, plucked and strained through ruder hands, 15
Her scent no longer with her dwells.
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.
Such fate ere long will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been a while; 20