The Rose of Spring forth venturing
Too soon to trust the zephyr with her worth,
Her crimson smiles and fragrant wiles
May waste instead upon the piercing North.
For balmy blisses, his icy kisses
Fall fast and faster upon her head;
While, one by one, with woe foredone,
She weeps, and weeps away her petals red.

Ye maidens fair, now have a care
How ye too dare that stricken rose’s fate!
O, bide in bud, lest frost and flood
Mar your sweet beauties with as sudden hate.
For she who grieves that her gay leaves
Unfold not sooner in the Summer sun,
And tempts her fate, shall find too late
Love over-rash may into ruin run.