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 holly's sheen,

That, when December blights thy brow,