Part 87 (2/2)

The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the Roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses; But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade; Die to themselves--sweet Roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.

_Sonnet_ liv.

(48)

Why should poor beauty indirectly seek Roses of shadow, since his Rose is true?

_Ibid._ lxvii.

(49)

Shame, like a canker in the fragrant Rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name.

_Ibid._ xcv.

(50)

Nor did I wonder at the Lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion of the Rose.

_Ibid._ xcviii.

(51)

The Roses fearfully in thorns did stand, One blus.h.i.+ng shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath.

_Ibid._ xcix.

(52)

I have seen Roses damask'd, red and white, But no such Roses see I in her cheeks.

_Ibid._ cx.x.x.

(53)

More white and red than dove and Roses are.

_Venus and Adonis_ (10).

(54)

What though the Rose has p.r.i.c.kles? yet 'tis plucked.

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