I must not go forth into the grassland,
Where the prickly thistles grow,
As I am just a pretty virgin rose
Pure and white as the fallen snow.
I need a hero in bright armour,
To protect my fragile form,
Out alone I should not venture,
In case the boorish thistles storm.
Secret thoughts I've come to harbour,
About those awful oafish weeds,
If my garden's gate were left open,
Would they gush in and spread their seeds?
I better stay here, conversing, with the noble honey bees,
Until the day I am gathered, by my hunter Hercules.
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