DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 127 
TILE ROSE. 
WALLER. 
Go, lovely rose, 
Tell her that wastes her time on me, 
That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
Tell her that’s young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 
That liadst thou sprung 
In deserts where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 
Small Is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired; 
Bid her come forth, 
Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 
Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 
May read in thee; 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 
Yet, though thou fade, 
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; 
And teach the maid 
That goodness time’s rude hand defies; 
That virtue lives when beauty dies. 
