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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=499041" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Rose</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sweet serene skye-like Flower,<br>Haste to adorn her Bower :<br>From thy long clowdy bed,<br>Shoot forth thy damaske head.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">New-startled blush of Flora !<br>The griefe of pale Aurora,<br>Who will contest no more ;<br>Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Vermilion Ball that's given<br>From lip to lip in Heaven ;<br>Love's Couches cover-led :<br>Haste, haste, to make her bed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dear Offspring of pleas'd Venus,<br>And Jollie, plumpe Silenus ;<br>Haste, haste, to decke the Haire<br>Of th' only, sweetly Faire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">See ! Rosie is her Bower,<br>Her floore is all this Flower ;<br>Her Bed a Rosie nest<br>By a Bed of Roses prest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But early as she dresses,<br>Why fly you her bright Tresses ?<br>Ah ! I have found I feare ; <br>Because her Cheekes are neere.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Richard+Lovelace">Richard Lovelace</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=499041" data-title="The Rose de Richard Lovelace" data-description="I. Sweet serene skye-like Flower, Haste to adorn her Bower : From thy long clowdy bed, Shoot forth thy damaske head. II. New-startled blush of Flora ! The griefe of pale Aurora, Who will contest no more ; Haste, haste, to strowe her floore. II..."></div> </div> </div>
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