Cunninglinguist
07-06-2010, 06:27 AM
Men to thee come so quick to bid a rose
And befit all against my love for thee.
So with so many my love doth oppose
How can my love so hold even a plea?
My woos do woo with might of soft flowers,
Theirs so like stone or brass or earth who hold
‘Til greater Time decays their great powers,
While flower’s seeds renewest flowers old.
Sometimes envy author’s poor love’s decease;
But I, while men flaunt their roses and woo,
Knowest well when thy beauty dost decrease
Their roses false shall fade but mine stay true.
So thus our love envy shall never hold
And my for thee shall never growest old.
Fairest of fair thou princess of the spring;
For ne’er did such a pretty flower grow,
And beauty so, for thee the birds doth sing,
And buds doth bud so dearest blossoms show.
May spring’s darling reign darling summer too;
For, thy beauty betters June’s reddest rose,
And dost exceed all blossoms men may view,
And shines as Heaven’s eye where yet life grows.
But bid not these thy beauty’s due acclaim;
For Art is but nature’s face drawn crudely,
And so, in Art, so crude the rose became
When man did rob the red roses so rudely.
So beauty so that imparts my rapture
Durst lines who err too great to capture.
(Criticisms appreciated)
And befit all against my love for thee.
So with so many my love doth oppose
How can my love so hold even a plea?
My woos do woo with might of soft flowers,
Theirs so like stone or brass or earth who hold
‘Til greater Time decays their great powers,
While flower’s seeds renewest flowers old.
Sometimes envy author’s poor love’s decease;
But I, while men flaunt their roses and woo,
Knowest well when thy beauty dost decrease
Their roses false shall fade but mine stay true.
So thus our love envy shall never hold
And my for thee shall never growest old.
Fairest of fair thou princess of the spring;
For ne’er did such a pretty flower grow,
And beauty so, for thee the birds doth sing,
And buds doth bud so dearest blossoms show.
May spring’s darling reign darling summer too;
For, thy beauty betters June’s reddest rose,
And dost exceed all blossoms men may view,
And shines as Heaven’s eye where yet life grows.
But bid not these thy beauty’s due acclaim;
For Art is but nature’s face drawn crudely,
And so, in Art, so crude the rose became
When man did rob the red roses so rudely.
So beauty so that imparts my rapture
Durst lines who err too great to capture.
(Criticisms appreciated)