THE ROSE 
BY WILLIAM BROWNE OF TAVISTOCK 
A Rose, as fair as ever saw the North, 
Grew in a little garden all alone; 
A sweeter flower did Nature ne’er put forth, 
N or fairer garden yet was never known: 
The maidens danced about it mom and noon, 
And learned bards of it their ditties made; 
The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon 
Watered the root and kiss’d her pretty shade. 
But well-a-day ! —the gardener careless grew; 
The maids and fairies both were kept away, 
And in a drought the caterpillars threw 
Themselves upon the bud and every spray. 
God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies, 
The fairest blossom of the garden dies. 
