The rose that all are praising
Is not the rose for me;
Too many eyes are gazing
Upon the costly tree;
But there's a rose in yonder glen
That shuns the gaze of other men,
For me its blossom raising,--
O, that's the rose for me.
_The rose that all are praising_. T.H. BAYLY.
But the fruit that can fall without shaking,
Indeed is too mellow for me.
_The Answer_. LADY MARY W. MONTAGU.
Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
Is--Lord forgive us!--cinders, ashes, dust.
_Lamia_. J. KEATS.
The cold in clime are cold in blood,
Their love can scarce deserve the name.
_The Giaour_. LORD BYRON.
Love in your hearts as idly burns
As fire in antique Roman urns.
_Hudibras, Pt. II. Canto I_. S. BUTLER.