| SWEET rose, fair flower, untimely pluck’d, soon vaded, | |
| Pluck’d in the bud, and vaded in the spring! | |
| Bright orient pearl, alack! too timely shaded; | |
| Fair creature, kill’d too soon by death’s sharp sting! | |
| Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree, | 5 |
| And falls, through wind, before the fall should be. | |
| I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have; | |
| For why thou left’st me nothing in thy will: | |
| And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave; | |
| For why I craved nothing of thee still: | 10 |
| O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee, | |
| Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me. |