The Virtue of the Rose
The rose does not esteem her generations
Nor marvel in the beauty of her fashion,
She can not prize her fragrant emanations,
In her, vermilion’s hues incite no passion;
When on the bush her virtue counts as pleasure,
Though thorny brambles make no plush brocade,
Yet she transforms exquisite beyond measure
When picked to fade adorning my love’s braid;
From where ensues this virtue she defines?
She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew,
If not that though she fade a thousand times
Those many times shall she travail anew.
Immortalized when kissed by mortal breath,
The rose’s virtue lies in mocking death.