The rose with such a bonny blush,
What has the rose to blush about?
If it's the sun that makes her flush,
What's in the sun to flush about?
The rose that blushes rosy red,
She must hang her head;
The lily that blows spotless white,
She may stand upright.
THERE is no joy all set apart from pain,
The opening bud has loss as well as gain.
The brighest dewdropp gems a bending flower,
The rarest day has wept one little shower;
But wholly blest the parting pain and ruth
That hold and fold the joining love of youth.
Not that I would instruct or tutor you
What is a Wifes behest, or Husbands due,
Give I this Widdow-Wife. Your early date
Of knowledge makes such Precepts slow and late.
This book is but your glass, where you shall see
What your self are, what other Wives should bee.
Time cannot break the bird's wing from the bird.
Bird and wing together
Go down, one feather.
No thing that ever flew,
Not the lark, not you,
Can die as others do.
Late arrival, no
One would think of blaming you
For hesitating so.
Who, setting his hand to knock
At a door so strange as this one,
Might not draw back?
Rhinoceros, your hide looks all undone,
You do not take my fancy in the least:
You have a horn where other brutes have none:
Rhinoceros, you are an ugly beast.
O soft and dainty maiden, from afar
I watch you, as amidst the flowers you move,
And pluck them, singing.
More golden than all gold your tresses are:
Never was harp-note like your voice, my love,
Your voice sweet-ringing.
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen men--and
the baby hard to find a father for!
What will the good Father in Heaven say
to the local judge if he do not solve this problem?
A little two-pointed smile and--pouff!--
the law is changed into a mouthful of phrases.
Where are you going, my dear little greenhorns?
Here, I'll teach you how to turn a verse or two
Young drones sucking at withered flowers,
Little goats brushing horns against a fence.
