Being weary of love,

      I flew to the grove,

And chose me a tree of the fairest;

      Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree,

      "Thou my mistress shall be,

  "And I'll worship each bud thou bearest.

    "For the hearts of this world are hollow,

    "And fickle the smiles we follow;

        "And 'tis sweet, when all

        "Their witcheries pall

"To have a pure love to fly to:

        "So, my pretty Rose-tree,

        "Thou my mistress shalt be,

"And the only one now I shall sigh to."

        When the beautiful hue

        Of thy cheek thro' the dew

Of morning is bashfully peeping,

        "Sweet tears," I shall say

        (As I brush them away),

  "At least there's no art in this weeping"

  Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow;

  'Twill not be from pain or sorrow;

        And the thorns of thy stem

        Are not like them

With which men wound each other;

        So, my pretty Rose-tree,

        Thou my mistress shalt be

And I'll never again sigh to another.