The Budd.

LAtely on yonder swelling bush,
Big with many a coming Rose,
This early Bud began to blush,
And did but half it self disclose;
I pluck't it, though no better grown,
And now you see how full 'tis blown.

Still as I did the leaves inspire,
With such a purple light they shone
As if they had been made of fire,
And spreading so, would flame anon:
All that was meant, by Air or Sun
To the young flower, my breath has done.

If our loose breath so much can do,
What may the same inform's of love,
Of purest love and musick too
When Flavia it aspires to move:
When that, which life-less buds perswades
To wax more soft, her youth invades.