The SICK ROSE O Rose thou art sick. The invisible worm, That flies in the night In the howling storm: Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. >My Pretty ROSE TREE A flower was offerd to me: Such a flower as May never bore. But I said I've a Pretty Rose-tree, And I passed the sweet flower o'er. Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree: To tend her by day and by night. But my Rose turnd away with jealousy: And her thorns were my only delight.