Juliet - William Clarke Wontner
Thou art to me the fairest crimson rose, A tender bloom with dawn's first colour gilt; Yet ev'ry flow'r in mortal clime that grows, Is here for but a time, and then does wilt. By all I e'er held dear, I now aver, That though a rose may wilt, yet still 'tis sweet; I only hope a place I could secure In fondest adoration at thy feet. For fairness found in form and face will fail, But that within the heart may shine undimmed; Though nothing for youth's beauty may avail, A heart with golden deeds may yet be rimmed. My Juliet, in truth I do declare, I love thee not for youthful beauty fair.
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