For thin, tall fops, I keep the Rush, 
For peasants still am Nightshade weeding; 
For rakes, I’ve Devil-in-the-Bush, 
For sighing Strephons, Love-lies-Bleeding. 
But fairest blooms affection’s hand 
For constancy and worth disposes, 
And gladly weaves at your command, 
A wreath of Amaranths and Roses. 
THE BUD OF THE ROSE. 
Her mouth, which a smile, 
Devoid of all guile, 
Half opened to view, 
Is the bud of the rose, 
In the morning that blows, 
[mpearled with the dew. 
More fragrant her breath 
Than the flower-scented heath 
At the dawning of day ; 
The lily’s perfume, 
The hawthorn m bloom, 
Or the blossoms of May. 
