The Shepherd to the Flowers

Sweet violets, Love's paradise, that spread
Your gracious odours, which you couched bear
Within your paly faces.
Upon the gentle wing of some calm breathing wind.
That plays amidst the plain.
If by the favour of propitious stars you gain
Such grace as in my lady's bosom place to find,
Be proud to touch those places,
And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear.
Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed,
Your honours of the flowery meads I pray.
You pretty daughters of the earth and sun,
With mild and seemly breathing straight display
My bitter sighs, that have my heart undone.

Vermilion roses, that with new day's rise
Display your crimson folds fresh-looking, fair.
Whose radiant bright disgraces
The rich adorned rays of roseate rising morn.
Ah! if her virgin's hand
Do pluck your pure, ere Phoebus view the land.
And veil your gracious pom lovely Nature's scorn;
If chance my mistress traces
Fast by your flowers to take the Summer's air,
Then, woful blushing, tempt her glorious eyes.
To spread their tears, Adonis' death reporting.
And tell Love's torments,' sorrowing for her friend,
Whose drops of blood within your leaves consorting.
Report fair Venus' moans to have no end.
Then may remorse, in pitying of my smart.
Dry up my tears, and dwell within her heart.