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Vermillion roses, that with new dayes rise,
Display your crimson folds, fresh looking faire,
Whose radiant bright disgraces
The rich adorned rayes of roseate rising morne!
Ah! if her virgin's hand
Do pluck your purse ere Phœbus view the land,
And vaile your gracious pompe in lovely nature's scorne;
If chance my mistresse traces
Fast by your flowres to take the Sommer's ayre,
Then wofull blushing, tempt her glorious eyes
To spread their teares, Adonis' death reporting,
And tell Love's torments, sorrowing for her friend,
Whose drops of blood, within your leaves consorting,
Report fair Venus' moanes to have no end;
Then may remorse, in pittying of my smart,
Drie up my teares, and dwell within her heart.
Herrick, in one of his many complimentary fancies, thus accounts for the Rose's change of colour, and the thought seems to have become public property since his day, for we find it versified in divers manners by bards of all degrees—
Roses at first were white,
Till they could not agree
Whether my Sappho's breast
Or they more white should be.
But, being vanquished quite,
A blush their cheeks bespread;
Since which, believe the rest,
The roses first came red.
Being dedicated to the goddess of beauty and god of love, the Rose often plays her part in the tender and sentimental
