Roses, rooted warm in earth,
 Bud in rhyme, another age;
Lilies know a ghostly birth
 Strewn along a patterned page;
Golden lad and chimbley sweep
 Die; and so their song shall keep.

Wind that in Arcadia starts
 In and out a couplet plays;
And the drums of bitter hearts
 Beat the measure of a phrase.
Sweets and woes but come to print
 Quae cum ita sint.