XII. on a Flower-garden

Spare, O spare each smiling flow'r, Offspring of a fleeting hour; Let them live their little day, Man is transient too as they; Man who seeks with giddy joy, First to rear and then destroy. Let them wanton in the wind, Let them live to leave their kind, Still in brightest beauty seen In their native couches green: So shall they fresh odours bring, Wafting sweets on Zephyr's wing.