rose (n.)
- achievement
- annulet
- argent
- armory
- arms
- azure
- badge
- bandeau
- bar
- baton
- bend
- billet
- blazon
- blazonry
- brassard
- button
- canton
- chain
- chaplet
- charge
- chevron
- chief
- cockade
- cockatrice
- collar
- color
- coral
- coronet
- crescent
- crest
- crimson
- cross
- crown
- decoration
- device
- difference
- dress
- eagle
- ermine
- escutcheon
- falcon
- fasces
- fess
- field
- figurehead
- file
- fleur-de-lis
- flush
- fret
- fur
- fusil
- garland
- glow
- griffin
- helmet
- heraldry
- impalement
- insignia
- label
- lion
- livery
- lozenge
- mace
- mantle
- mantling
- medal
- metal
- mortarboard
- motto
- mullet
- nose
- nozzle
- or
- ordinary
- pale
- pean
- pin
- pink
- pinkness
- pinky
- primrose
- quarter
- quartering
- regalia
- ring
- rosiness
- rosy
- rouge
- sable
- salmon
- saltire
- scutcheon
- shamrock
- shield
- snout
- staff
- swastika
- tartan
- thistle
- tie
- tincture
- unicorn
- uniform
- verge
- vert
- wand
- wreath
- yale
rose (v.)
- arms
- azure
- badge
- bar
- bend
- billet
- blazon
- button
- canton
- chain
- charge
- collar
- color
- crest
- crimson
- cross
- crown
- dress
- eagle
- ermine
- falcon
- fess
- field
- file
- flush
- fret
- fur
- garland
- glow
- incarnadine
- label
- lion
- mace
- mantle
- metal
- nose
- or
- pale
- pin
- pink
- quarter
- redden
- ring
- rouge
- sable
- shield
- staff
- tie
- tincture
- uniform
- verge
- vert
rose (adj.)
Any nose
May ravage with impunity a rose.
At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth;
But like of each thing that in season grows.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
The desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose.
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.
I have heard the mavis singing
Its love-song to the morn;
I 've seen the dew-drop clinging
To the rose just newly born.
She what was honour knew,
And with obsequious majesty approv'd
My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower
I led her blushing like the morn; all heaven
And happy constellations on that hour
Shed their selectest influence; the earth
Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill;
Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs
Whisper'd it to the woods, and from their wings
Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub.
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.
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses: Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows:
Loses them too. Then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple on his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes:
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd
Than that which withering on the virgin thorn
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose.
Die of a rose in aromatic pain.
All that happens is as usual and familiar as the rose in spring and the crop in summer.
The rose is fairest when 't is budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears.
The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew,
And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.
The rose is fairest when 't is budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears.
The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew,
And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.
This saying, "Je ne suis pas la rose, mais j'ai vécu avec elle," is assigned to Constant by A. Hayward in his Introduction to the "Autobiography and Letters" of Mrs. Piozzi.
I have heard the mavis singing
Its love-song to the morn;
I 've seen the dew-drop clinging
To the rose just newly born.
'T is the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone.
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow.
And the final event to himself [Mr. Burke] has been, that, as he rose like a rocket, he fell like the stick.
Anon out of the earth a fabric huge
Rose, like an exhalation.
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose.
My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But ere the shades of evening close
Is scattered on the ground—to die.
Oh, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
Oh, my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying,
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
The expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion and the mould of form,
The observed of all observers!
He wears the rose
Of youth upon him.
Red as a rose is she.
As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
A Rose is sweeter in the budde than full blowne.
The rose that all are praising
Is not the rose for me.
Loveliest of lovely things are they
On earth that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow.
When we desire to confine our words, we commonly say they are spoken under the rose.
Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes.
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin.
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
There is no gathering the rose without being pricked by the thorns.
But ne'er the rose without the thorn.
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
And her face so fair
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.
And her face so fair
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin.
