She had already allowed her delectable lover to pluck that flower which, so different from the rose to which it is nevertheless sometimes compared, has not the same faculty of being reborn each spring.
Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
You follow the same paths of thought as before. Only, they appear strewn with roses.
I want real loyalty. I want someone who will kiss my ass in Macy's window, and say it smells like roses.
Let us try to see things from their better side: You complain about seeing thorny rose bushes; Me, I rejoice and give thanks to the gods That thorns have roses.
You smell a rose through a fence: If two should smell it, what matter?
To be beautiful is enough! if a woman can do that well who should demand more from her? You don't want a rose to sing.
That which God said to the rose, and caused it to laugh in full-blown beauty, He said to my heart, and made it a hundred times more beautiful.
Some people are near- or farsighted - I'm thorn-sighted. The thorns on the rose are in really sharp definition for me, the rose petals a little fuzzier.
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
Information appears to stew out of me naturally, like the precious otter of roses out of the otter.
I have no phobias. Phobias are irrational. My fears are rational and CAREFULLY CULTIVATED, like roses.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
