Sweetest rose,
heaven knows
your stay's hell.
So get well!
Noonday sun
waits for one
laid abed,
flushed and red,
growing pale,
not to ail.
Instead, tan—
for this man
would bestow
golden glow
to your cheek.
Trim and sleek,
figure fair,
please beware
that you may
come to weigh
but a sigh.
Have some pie!
Health and life:
butterknife
on your dish—
fondest wish
of Marot's,
sweetest rose.