Love is like the wild rose-briar； Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, But which will bloom most constantly？
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring, Its summer blossoms scent the air； Yet wait till winter comes again, And who will call the wild-briar fair？
Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, And deck thee with the holly's sheen, That, when December blights thy brow, He still may leave thy garland green.