Here — for they could not help but die —
The daughters of the Rose-Bush lie:
Here rest, interred without a stone,
What dear Lucinda gave to none, —
What forward beau, or curious belle,
Could hardly touch, and rarely smell.

Dear Rose! of all the blooming kind
You had a happier place assigned,
And nearer grew to all that 's fair,
And more engaged Lucinda's care,
Than ever courting, coaxing swain,
Or ever all who love, shall gain.