SEE, Mignonne, hath not the Rose, That this morning did unclose Her purple mantle¹ to the light, Lost, before the day be dead, The glory of her raiment red, Her colour, bright as yours is bright？

    Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours, The petals² of her purple flowers All have faded, fallen, died； Sad Nature, mother ruinous, That seest thy fair child perish thus 'Twixt matin song and even tide.

    Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth, Gather the fleet flower of your youth, Take ye your pleasure at the best； Be merry ere your beauty flit, For length of days will tarnish³ it Like roses that were loveliest.