Being Weary Of Love, I Flew To The Grove, And Chose Me A Tree Of The Fairest; Saying, "Pretty Rose-Tree, "Thou My Mistress Shall Be, "And I'll Worship Each Bud Thou Bearest. "For The Hearts Of This World Are Hollow, "And Fickle The Smiles We Follow; "And 'Tis Sweet, When All "Their Witcheries Pall "To Have A Pure Love To Fly To: "So, My Pretty Rose-Tree, "Thou My Mistress Shalt Be, "And The Only One Now I Shall Sigh To." When The Beautiful Hue Of Thy Cheek Thro' The Dew Of Morning Is Bashfully Peeping, "Sweet Tears," I Shall Say (As I Brush Them Away), "At Least There'S No Art In This Weeping" Altho Thou Shouldst Die To-Morrow; 'Twill Not Be From Pain Or Sorrow; And The Thorns Of Thy Stem Are Not Like Them With Which Men Wound Each Other; So, My Pretty Rose-Tree, Thou My Mistress Shalt Be And I'll Never Again Sigh To Another.