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, 
And I’ll worship each hud 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 one 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. 
v 
