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 Nor are ye worn with years, Or warp'd as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep? Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no, this sorrow shown By your tears shed Would have this lecture read: That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceiv'd with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

Roses at first were white, Till they could not agree, Whether my Sappho's breast Or they more white should be.

But, being vanquish'd quite, A blush their cheeks bespread; Since which, believe the rest, The roses first came red.