Love's like a summer rose,
whose fragrant buds unclose,
but ah, how soon it goes,
fading and wasting!
Fallen its petals lie
quickly to fade and die;
thus do love's pleasures fly,
lost in the tasting.

Yet as new roses blow
as fresher fountains flow,
so will new raptures glow,
new joys delight thee;
Lips, that entreating press,
arms, warm in soft caress,
bosoms of loveliness
to bliss invite thee.

Is not the new love fair?
Why for the old despair?
As song dies on the air,
so love is fleeting.
Why then the past regret?
Pleasure remaineth yet;
love only and forget
memory's entreating.