No white nor red was ever seen So am'rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name. Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! where s'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.

Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept their time.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned, but in herbs and flowers?

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.

As lines, so loves oblique, may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.

My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.