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w By Julia are thy sweets confessed, 

 Soft mingling with the gale ; 



But place thee on her snowy breast, 

 How soon thy odors fail. 



" Fair mid her leaves, thy sister see 



In virgin tints attired, 

 She dwells not on her charms, like thee, 



Yet, is she less admired ?" 



Abashed her purple blushes fled, 



The pride of summer came, 

 And Lilacs numbered with the dead, 



No more our shepherds name. 



ON THE ROSE. 



BY SIR H. WOTTON. 



YE violets, that first appear, 

 By your pure purple mantle known, 

 Like the proud virgins of the year, 

 As if the spring were all your own 

 What are ye when the Rose is blown ? 



