Page:Romance of the Rose (Ellis), volume 1.pdf/92

58

Yet soft delight. Whene’er I smelt

Its odour, strong desire I felt

Possess me wholly that I might

Snatch for mine own that dear delight.

But thorns and thistles grew so thick

Around the rose-bush, prone to prick

And wound the profanous hand that dared

Approach and grasp it, that I spared

To risk the rash attempt, afraid

My love might be with wounds apaid.

HE God of Love, whose bow was bent

With purpose fell, where’er I went

Pursued my steps, and took his stand

Beneath a fig-tree, close at hand

To where, with arm upraised, I sought

To pluck the Rose whose beauty brought

Me thither; then he took a shaft

And nocking it, with bowman’s craft,

Drew the string taut against his ear

With mighty arm, for well that gear