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When love came first to earth, the Spring Spread rose-beds to receive him.

Rose were sette of swete savour, With many roses that thei bere.

I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose.

Till the rose's lips grow pale With her sighs.

I wish I might a rose-bud grow And thou wouldst cull me from the bower. To place me on that breast of snow Where I should bloom a wintry flower.