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You are a tulip seen to-day, But, dearest, of so short a stay That where you grew scarce man can say.

You are a lovely July-flower, Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling rose i' th' bud, Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew or stood.

You are a full-spread, fair-set vine, And can with tendrils love entwine, Yet dried ere you distil your wine.

You are like balm enclosed well In amber, or some crystal shell, Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.

You are a dainty violet, Yet wither'd ere you can be set Within the virgin's coronet.

You are the queen all flowers among, But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song.

From this bleeding hand of mine Take this sprig of eglantine,