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 x
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.