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 You are a Tulip seen to-day,
But, Dearest, of so short a stay,
That where you grew, scarce man can say.
You are a lovely July-flower; Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower, Will force you hence, and in an hour.
You are a sparkling Rose i'th' bud, Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew or stood.
You are a full-spread fair-set Vine, And can with tendrils love entwine; Yet dried, ere you distil your wine.
You are like Balm, enclosed well In amber, or some crystal shell; Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.
You are a dainty Violet; Yet wither'd, ere you can be set Within the virgins coronet.
You are the Queen all flowers among; But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song.

Poem by Robert Herrick
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