GO, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace. How happy should I prove, Might I supply that envied place With never-fading love! There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye, Involved in fragrance, burn and die. Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find More fragrant roses there, I see thy withering head reclined With envy and despair; One common fate we both must prove; You die with envy, I with love. |