See, Mignonne, hath not the Rose, <br /> <br />That this morning did unclose <br /> <br />Her purple mantle to the light, <br /> <br />Lost, before the day be dead, <br /> <br />The glory of her raiment red, <br /> <br />Her colour, bright as yours is bright? <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours, <br /> <br />The petals of her purple flowers <br /> <br />All have faded, fallen, died; <br /> <br />Sad Nature, mother ruinous, <br /> <br />That seest thy fair child perish thus <br /> <br />‘Twixt matin song and even tide. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth, <br /> <br />Gather the fleet flower of your youth, <br /> <br />Take ye your pleasure at the best; <br /> <br />Be merry ere your beauty flit, <br /> <br />For length of days will tarnish it <br /> <br />Like roses that were loveliest.<br /><br />Pierre de Ronsard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-rose-123/
