To The Vertuous, And Fairely Spreading Buds Of Beautie, Mistris Marie, Francis, And Ioane Metcalf, Daughters Of Sir Thomas Metcalf, Knight, He Dedicates These Roses Poem by John Ashmore

It 'Spring, the Day, by fair Aurora led,
Breath'd cooly; yet the Sense with pleasure fed:
Quick Aire before the Eastern Steeds did run,
Advising to prevent the scorching Sun.
Then lov'd I in a garden by a spring;
Where to delight me fitted every thing.
A candid Pearle upon each grass-pile hung:
Nor sparingly Pearles on the hearbs were flung:
On cawles of Cobweb-lawne, glaz'd spangles plaid;
Which full of heavenly liquor down-ward swaid.
I saw the Rose-beds, with trim dressings proud;
Which till faire Day a deawie vaile did shrowd.
Ith' thickets Gems were scattered here and there:
Which hide themselves when Phœbus rayes appeare.
Whether the Rose Auror', or she hath dy'd
The Rose with maidens-blush, t's not yet try'd.
Their Deaw, their Colour, and their Morn is one:
And both from Venus have protection.
Perhaps their savour's one: Ith' aire, That's spent.
This, neerer us, hath a farre sweeter sent.
One Goddess guides the Star, and the Flowre, too:
And, clad in Scarlet liveries, both goe.
Nor suddenly the branches of the Rose
In equall distances themselves disclose.
This bravely weares a Periwig on her head,
Her pretty Leaves are all with Purple spread.
From her square Base she climbs, and up ascendeth;
And (pointed with a Rubie-button) bendeth.
Her plaited Robes this gathers in the top,
Ready to open now her silken Shop.
Her smiling Treasures then she sheweth plaine,
And seeds of Saffron, which there safe remaine.
Shee that but now her golden Leaves did brandish,
Now pale (alas!) left of her Leaves doth languish.
I mus'd, to see their Beauty did not stay;
And, in their Cradle, that their Hairs grew gray.
Even while I speake, see how their Glory Sheds,
And how their Punick-pride the Ground o'r-spreads.
Such Shapes, such Births, and divers Changes growne
In one day, are in one day overthrowne.
We blame thee, Nature, that Flowrs soon decay:
Thou onely shew'st them, then tak'st them away.
The age of Roses but one day doth last:
Which being gon, their youthfull time is past.
Her, whom now born the Sun saw rising red,
Setting, he fainting sees on her Death-bed:
Yet her Short Life requited is, that she
Lives ever in her faire Posteritie.
Pull Roses, Virgins, while the time doth last:
And think how soon your Rose-time will be past.