Gather The Flowers, But Spare The Buds.

Though I Carry Always Some Ill-nature About Me, Yet It Is, I Hope, No More Than Is In This World Necessary For A Preservative.

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.

Self-preservation, Nature's First Great Law, All The Creatures, Except Man, Doth Awe.

Like The Vain Curlings Of The Watery Maze, Which In Smooth Streams A Sinking Weight Does Raise, So Man, Declining Always, Disappears In The Weak Circles Of Increasing Years; And His Short Tumults Of Themselves Compose, While Flowing Time Above His Head Does Close.

Casting The Body's Vest Aside, My Soul Into The Boughs Does Glide.