Comme on voit sur la branche au mois de may la rose,
En sa belle jeunesse, en sa premiere fleur,
Rendre le ciel jaloux de sa vive couleur,
Quand l’Aube de ses pleurs au poinct du jour l’arrose;
La grace dans sa feuille, et l’amour se repose,
Embasmant les jardins et les arbres d’odeur;
Mais batue ou de pluye, ou d’excessive ardeur,
Languissante elle meurt, fueille à fueille déclose.
Ainsi en ta premiere et jeune nouveauté,
Quand la Terre et le Ciel honoraient ta beauté,
La Parque t'a tuee, et cendre tu reposes.
Pour obseques reçoy mes larmes et mes pleurs,
Ce vase plein de laict, ce panier plein de fleurs,
Afin que vif et mort ton corps ne soit que roses.
As one perceives the rose on every branch in May
In all its youthful beauty and in early flower,
Its brightness making jealousy the skies devour,
When Dawn with tears refreshes it at break of day;
Grace in its petals lies, there love too does repose,
Filling the trees and gardens with its fragrant scent;
But soon by rain or by excess of fervour spent,
It languishes as wilting petals all expose.
Thus in your first and early freshness all ablaze,
When Earth and Sky your beauty honoured and did praise,
Did Fate devise your death, your ashes did contrive.
As obsequies receive these tears in copious showers
This vase brimful of milk, this basket full of flowers,
So that, alive or dead, as roses you survive.
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