I gaz'd on the Rosebush, I heav'd a sad sigh, 
  And mine eyelid was gemm'd by a tear, 
Ah let me, I cried, by my Marian lie, 
  For all that I value sleeps here. 

This Rose-tree once flourish'd and sweeten'd the air,
  Like its blossom, all lovely she grew; 
The scent of her breath like its fragrance was rare,
  And her cheeks were more fresh than its hue. 

She planted, she lov'd it, she dew'd its gay head, 
  And its bloom every rival defied,
But alas! what was beauty or virtue soon fled, 
  In spring they both blossom'd and died.