Epitaph

Here—for they could not help but die— The daughters of the Rose-Bush lie: Here rest, interred without a stone, What dear Lucinda gave to none,— What forward beau, or curious belle, Could hardly touch, and rarely smell. Dear Rose! of all the blooming kind You had a happier place assigned, And nearer grew to all that ’s fair, And more engaged Lucinda’s care, Than ever courting, coaxing swain, Or ever all who love, shall gain.

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