When May doth mount her throne with blossoms crowned,
And strews her bounty o'er the greening ground,
The rose, her fav'rite, blooms with queenly pride,
Her crimson cloak by dewy tears belied.
She sings to bees, and woos the bashful light,
A flame of passion clothed in ****** white.
O Rose of May, thou art the heart's delight,
A thorned joy, both tender and contrite.