She wore a wreath of roses, The night that first we met.

The rose that all are praising Is not the rose for me.

She wore a wreath of roses, / The night that first we met.

'Tis godlike to have power, but not to kill.

O give me new figures! I can't go on dancing The same that were taught me ten seasons ago; The schoolmaster over the land is advancing, Then why is the master of dancing so slow? It is such a bore to be always caught tripping In dull uniformity year after year; Invent something new, and you'll set me a skipping: I want a new figure to dance with my Dear!

The rose that all are praising/ Is not the rose for me.