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 bud that thou bearest. 
For the hearts of the 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.” 
Thomas Moore. 
