O' where does every rose go when it dies?
As love's a rose, and idleness does rot;
Then roses wither down to dusty guise -
With every thorn and every prickly dot.
Yet is to love, to grow a petal leaf?
That if befalls, the stem of love withhold,
Then love for one is what does die of grief
And limbs left mourn, to bleed for love of old.
Are we of blessed bodies with a rose -
That mends the bleeding limb and loves again?
Again, again til time does then repose -
The flow of love, then rose to dust; is then.

Tho' care upon this flower near the core;
If bled to dry, then love has loved no - more.