Young Rosalind, she is my rose!
I care not who the secret knows;
So deep within my heart she grows,
Her constant bloom no winter knows;
Sweet Rosalind, she is my rose.
Alas! this rose hath yet a thorn,
Whereon my heart is daily torn.
The love I proffer her each morn,
That love she flings me back in scorn.
But shall I therefore idly mourn?
She'd be no rose _without_ the thorn.