... rose Invites its fragrance to ner breast. But ere a few short honrs are fled, Its freshness gone, its beauty past! Ah, why on such a genial bed Could'st thou not live, and longer last Perchance inured to chilling showers, And early spring's yet feeble rays, Her heart o'er thee too warmly pours The light of love that round plays. Or is it that thou foundest there Buch beauty with such goodness ...