Take thou my blessing thus, and go And tell her this,--but do not so!-- Lest a handsome anger fly Like a lightning from her eye, And burn thee up, as well as I! 189. THE FUNERAL RITES OF THE ROSE The Rose was sick, and smiling died; And, being to be sanctified, About the bed, there sighing stood The sweet and flowery sisterhood. Some hung the head, while some did bring, To wash her, water from the spring; Some laid her forth, while others wept, But all a solemn fast there kept. The holy sisters some among, The sacred dirge and trental sung; But ah! what sweets smelt everywhere, As heaven had spent all perfumes there! At last, when prayers for the dead, And rites, were all accomplished, They, weeping, spread a lawny loom, And closed her up as in a tomb. 190. THE BLEEDING HAND; OR THE SPRIG OF EGLANTINE GIVEN TO A MAID From this bleeding hand of mine, Take this sprig of Eglantine: Which, though sweet unto your smell, Yet the fretful briar will tell, He who plucks the sweets, shall prove Many thorns to be in love. 191. TO CARNATIONS: A SONG Stay while ye will, or go, And leave no scent behind ye: Yet trust me, I shall know The place where I may find ye. Within my Lucia's cheek, (Whose livery ye wear) Play ye at hide or seek, I'm sure to find ye there. 192. TO PANSIES Ah, Cruel Love! must I endure Thy many scorns, and find no cure? Say, are thy medicines made to be Helps to all others but to me? I'll leave thee, and to Pansies come: Comforts you'll afford me some: You can ease my heart, and do What Love could ne'er be brought unto. 193. HOW PANSIES OR HEARTS-EASE CAME FIRST Frolic virgins once these were, Overloving, living here; Being here their ends denied Ran for sweet-hearts mad, and died. Love, in pity of their tears, And their loss in blooming years, For their restless here-spent hours, Gave them hearts-ease turn'd to flowers. 194. WHY FLOWERS CHANGE COLOUR These fresh beauties, we can prove, Once were virgins, sick of love, Turn'd to flowers: still in some, Colours go and colours come. 195. THE PRIMROSE Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This Primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew? I will whisper to your ears,-- The sweets of love are mixt with tears. Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break? I will answer,--these discover What fainting hopes are in a lover. 196. TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW