I will not have the mad Clytie,	
Whose head is turn'd by the sun;	
The tulip is a courtly quean,	
Whom, therefore I will shun;	
The cowslip is a country wench,	
The violet is a nun;	
But I will woo the dainty rose,	
The queen of every one.	
 
The pea is but a wanton witch,	
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand;	
The wolfsbane I should dread;	
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,	
That always mourns the dead;	
But I will woo the dainty rose,	
With her cheeks of tender red.	
 
The lily is all in white, like a saint,	
And so is no mate for me,	
And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with a blush,	
She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,	
And the broom's betroth'd to the bee;	
But I will plight with the dainty rose,	
For fairest of all is she.