The ladies of St. James's! They're painted to the eyes; Their white is stays for ever, Their red it never dies; But Phyllida, my Phillida! Her colour comes and goes; It trembles to a lily,-- It wavers to a rose.

And I wove the thing to a random rhyme,For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time.

And I wove the thing to a random rhyme,
For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time.

I intended an Ode, And it turned to a Sonnet.

Time goes, you say? Ah, no! alas, time stays, we go.

When the brain gets as dry as an empty nut, When the reason stands on its squarest toes, When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"-- There is a place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-blood stires and glows, And the young year draws to the "golden prime," And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,-- Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!