Oh! pluck that rose and prop its drooping head
Thy bosom, be its stay till it be dead;
Its leaves shall be embalm’d by lovers’ sighs,
True lovers’ tears — not such whose perjuries
Are register’d in heavenly tomes — but they,
Reckless of Fortune’s spite, whose mutual fay
Dares challenge Sun and Moon and stars and day,
To witness vows they never will gainsay.
And from those leaves, bland odours shall arise
Wafting their perfume to surrounding skies;
Wafting her praise, who tends the parent tree,
For oh! Priscilla it was rear’d by Thee.