Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/317

 Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.

282. Easter

I got me flowers to straw Thy way, I got me boughs off many a tree; But Thou wast up by break of day, And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee.

Yet though my flowers be lost, they say A heart can never come too late; Teach it to sing Thy praise this day. And then this day my life shall date.

283. Discipline

Throw away Thy rod, Throw away Thy wrath; O my God, Take the gentle path!