THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE. 



Being weary of love, 



I flew to the grove. 

 And chose me a tree of the fairest ; 



Saying, " Pretty Rose-tree 



Thou my mistress shalt be, 

 A.nd I'll worship each bud thou bearest. 

 For the hearts of this world are hollow, 

 And fickle the smiles we follow ; 



And 'tis sweet when all 



Their witch'ries pall. 

 To have a pure love to fly to ; 



So my pretty Rose-tree, 



Thou my mistress shalt be, 

 And the only orife now I shall sigh to." 



When the beautiful hue 



Of thy cheek through the dew 

 Of morning is bashfully peeping, 



" Sweet tears," I shall say 



(As I brush them away), 

 " At least there's no art in this weeping." 

 Although thou should'st die to-morrow, 

 'Twill not be from pain or sorrow ; 



And the thorns of thy stem 



Are not like them 

 With which men wound each other ; 



So my pretty Rose-tree, 



Thou my mistress shalt be, 

 And I'll ne'er sigh again to another. 



