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

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

Go pretty rose, go to my fair, Go tell her all I fain would dare, Tell her of hope; tell her of spring, Tell her of all I fain would sing, Oh! were I like thee, so fair a thing.

Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds before they wither.

He that plants thorns must never expect to gather roses.

There is no gathering the rose without being pricked by the thorns.

Thus to the Rose, the Thistle: Why art thou not of thistle-breed? Of use thou'dst, then, be truly, For asses might upon thee feed.

The full-blown rose, mid dewy sweets Most perfect dies.

This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.

'Twas a yellow rose, By that south window of the little house, My cousin Romney gathered with his hand On all my birthdays, for me. save the last; And then I shook the tree too rough, too rough, For roses to stay after.

O rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,-- Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.

Red as a rose of Harpocrate.

And thus, what can we do, Poor rose and poet too, Who both antedate our mission In an unprepared season?

"For if I wait," said she, "Till time for roses be,-- For the moss-rose and the musk-rose, Maiden-blush and royal-dusk rose,-- "What glory then for me In such a company?-- Roses plenty, roses plenty And one nightingale for twenty?"

You smell a rose through a fence: If two should smell it, what matter?

A white rosebud for a guerdon.

All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.

Loveliest of lovely things are they On earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For its like a baumy kiss o'er her sweet bonnie mou'!

Yon rose-buds in the morning-dew, How pure amang the leaves sae green!