Gather The Flowers, But Spare

Though I Carry Always Some Ill-nature About Me, Yet It Is, I Hope, No More Than Is In This World Necessary For A Preservative.

And Now, When I Have Summed Up All My Store, Thinking (so I Myself Deceive) So Rich A Chaplet Thence To Weave As Never Yet The King Of Glory Wore, Alas! I Find The Serpent Old, That, Twining In His Speckled Breast, About The Flowers Disguised Does Fold With Wreaths Of Fame And Interest.

And All The Way, To Guide Their Chime, With Falling Oars They Kept Their Time.

No White Nor Red Was Ever Seen So Am'rous As This Lovely Green. Fond Lovers, Cruel As Their Flame, Cut In These Trees Their Mistress' Name. Little, Alas, They Know Or Heed How Far These Beauties Hers Exceed! Fair Trees! Where S'e'er Your Barks I Wound, No Name Shall But Your Own Be Found.

Had We But World Enough, And Time, This Coyness, Lady, Were No Crime.