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Title: Ode 8 [Sing We The Rose]
Author: Michael Drayton [
More Titles by Drayton]
Sing we the Rose
Than which no flower there grows
Is sweeter:
And aptly her compare
With what in that is rare
A parallel none meeter.
Or made poses,
Of this that incloses
Such blisses,
That naturally flusheth
As she blusheth
When she is robbed of kisses.
Or if strewed
When with the morning dewed
Or stilling,
Or howe to sense exposed
All which in her enclosed,
Each place with sweetness filling.
That most renowned
By Nature richly crowned
With yellow,
Of that delitious lair
And as pure, her hair
Unto the same the fellow,
Fearing of harm
Nature that flower doth arm
From danger,
The touch gives her offence
But with reverence
Unto herself a stranger.
That red, or white,
Or mixed, the sense delight
Beholding,
In her complexion
All which perfection
Such harmony infolding.
That divided
Ere it was decided
Which most pure,
Began the grievous war
Of York and Lancaster,
That did many years indure.
Conflicts as great
As were in all that heat
I sustain:
By her, as many hearts
As men on either parts
That with her eyes hath slain.
The Primrose flower
The first of Flora's bower
Is placed,
So is she first as best
Though excellent the rest,
All gracing, by none graced.
[The end]
Michael Drayton's poem: Ode 8 [Sing We The Rose]
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