| Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916. | | | VII. The Tyrant
The Rose | | By Sir Richard Fanshawe (1608–1666) |
| | | BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon: | |
| What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? | |
| Th’art wondrous frolic, being to die so soon; | |
| And passing proud a little colour makes thee! | |
| If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, | 5 |
| Know, then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; | |
| For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves, | |
| The sentence of thy early death contain. | |
| Some clown’s coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, | |
| If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn! | 10 |
| And many Herods lie in wait, each hour, | |
| To murther thee, as soon as thou art born; | |
| Nay, force thy bud to blow! Their tyrant breath | |
| Anticipating life, to hasten death! | | | | |
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