Lately on yonder swelling Bush,
big with many a comming Rose,
this early Bud began to blush,
and did but halfe it selfe disclose:
I pluckt it though no better Grow'n,
yet now you see how full 'tis blow'n.

Still as I did the Leaves Inspire
With such a purple Light they shone,
As if they had been made of fire,
And spreading so would flame anon,
All that was meant by Ayre, or Sun,
To this yong Flow'r, my breath ha's done.

If our loose Breath so much can do,
What may the same if forms of Love?
Of purest Love and Musick too,
When Flavia it aspires to move:
When that which liveless Buds perswades
To wax more soft, her youth invades.