The Withering Rose

For this course, be my lust; but I’d known no love
For its cost odd, does the wariness damage.
Oh, my love remember not the angels that once soared above,
But the repentance that reputes, if you blame me now, how
Can I manage?
For the flowers in my garden now wither, the red roses now
are dun.
My pale dove now can’t fly anymore, its wings are tattered and
Perishing.
My heart so altered and worn by the ill course I’ve run.
Oh, my love if winter be my foe, would you be my light
In summer?
Cause you’re the only cure I know to be pure.