The poem
Droop, droop no more, or hang the head, Ye roses almost withered; Now strength, and newer purple get, Each here declining violet. O primroses! let this day be A resurrection unto ye; And to all flowers allied in blood, Or sworn to that sweet sisterhood. For health on Julia's cheek hath shed Claret and cream commingled; And those, her lips, do now appear As beams of coral, but more clear.