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Let those less fair

Choke on spite

Pull out their hair

For what is a rose

But that

Which by another name

Would smell as sweet?

You are but the messenger

My love

But I know

That among them all

Your heart belongs

Among roses and thorns

Not with those

Who scorn

A romantic man

Who listens well

Who has seen

After all the petals fall

Which rose blooms

And which doth rot

And smell

Less than sweet

Walk among

My roses and thorns

And forget

The noise

Of jealous wenches

Who cannot appreciate

A beautiful thing

Which is a rose

My darling.