Ode 8

A poem by Michael Drayton

Singe wee the Rose
Then which no flower there growes
Is sweeter:
And aptly her compare
With what in that is rare
A parallel none meeter.

Or made poses,
Of this that incloses
Suche blisses,
That naturally flusheth
As she blusheth
When she is robd of kisses.

Or if strew'd
When with the morning dew'd
Or stilling,
Or howe to sense expos'd
All which in her inclos'd,
Ech place with sweetnes filling.

That most renown'd
By Nature richly crownd
With yellow,
Of that delitious layre
And as pure, her hayre
Vnto the same the fellowe,

Fearing of harme
Nature that flower doth arme
From danger,
The touch giues her offence
But with reuerence
Vnto her selfe a stranger.

That redde, or white,
Or mixt, the sence delyte
In her complexion
All which perfection
Such harmony infouldinge.

That deuyded
Ere it was descided
Which most pure,
Began the greeuous war
Of York and Lancaster,
That did many yeeres indure.

Conflicts as greate
As were in all that heate
I sustaine:
By her, as many harts
As men on either parts
That with her eies hath slaine.

The Primrose flower
The first of Flora's bower
Is placed,
Soo is shee first as best
Though excellent the rest,
All gracing, by none graced.

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