At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth;
But like of each thing that in season grows.
SHAKS.: _Love's L. Lost,_ Act i., Sc. 1.
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem,
For that sweet odor which doth in it live.
SHAKS.: Sonnet liv.
You love the roses--so do I. I wish
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush.
GEORGE ELIOT: _Spanish Gypsy,_ Bk. iii.
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
KEATS: _Eve of St. Agnes,_ St. 27.
The rose saith in the dewy morn,
I am most fair;
Yet all my loveliness is born
Upon a thorn.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI: _Consider the Lilies of the Field._
Strew on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew!
In quiet she reposes;
Ah, would that I did too.
MATTHEW ARNOLD: _Requiescat._