You Are A Tulip Seen To-Day, But, Dearest, Of So Short A Stay, That Where You Grew, Scarce Man Can Say. You Are A Lovely July-Flower; Yet One Rude Wind, Or Ruffling Shower, Will Force You Hence, And In An Hour. You Are A Sparkling Rose I'Th' Bud, Yet Lost, Ere That Chaste Flesh And Blood Can Show Where You Or Grew Or Stood. You Are A Full-Spread Fair-Set Vine, And Can With Tendrils Love Entwine; Yet Dried, Ere You Distil Your Wine. You Are Like Balm, Enclosed Well In Amber, Or Some Crystal Shell; Yet Lost Ere You Transfuse Your Smell. You Are A Dainty Violet; Yet Wither'D, Ere You Can Be Set Within The Virgins Coronet. You Are The Queen All Flowers Among; But Die You Must, Fair Maid, Ere Long, As He, The Maker Of This Song.