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Alfred Austin - Song
Work rating: Low

Go talk to her, sweet flower,
 To whom I fain would talk
 Tell her I hour by hour
 Pine on my own poor stalk.

 Tell her that I should live
 Not quite so sore distressed,
 If she to you would give
 A throne upon her breast.

 Tell her that should she hie
 To my parched plot to see
 If I be dead, that I
 No more should withered be.

 If I were dead, her feet
 My spirit would revive,
 As may her bosom sweet
 Keep you, sweet flower, alive.
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