Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck’d, soon vaded,
Pluck’d in the bud and vaded in the spring!
Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded!
Fair creature, kill’d too soon by death’s sharp sting!
Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree,
And falls, through wind, before the fall should be.
I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have;
For why thou left’st me nothing in thy will;
And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave;
For why I craved nothing of thee still.
O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee,
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.