Y Rhosyn

Rhyw ddrych o goch a gwyn
  Yw'r rhosyn lliwgar hardd,
Gogoniant MAI deg yw,
  Mae'n gynllun gwiw mewn gardd:
Ond ei eiddilon ddail,
  Di sail, yn edwi sydd,
Mewn awr i lawr; a'i lun
  Yn darfod mewn un dydd.

I'r gwullyn teg ei wawr,
  Mae rhinwedd fawr er hyn,
Goruwch y blodau blith,
  Trwy'r brasfrith bant a'r bryn;
Pan lwyr farweiddio'n frau,
  Pan gollo ei liwiau i gyd,
Uwch meillion gwychion mae
  Ei beraroglau'n brid.

Ail rhosyn brithwyn brau
  Yw blodau dyddiau dyn;
Y glanddyn teg o liw,
  Golygus gwiw ei lun:
Can's hir nid ellir dal,
  Er gofal mo'r un gwyw;
Llaw amser a'i lleiha,
  Dan fwyta'r cnawd yn fyw.

Am hyn ni byddaf balch,
  Neu goegfalch bryfyn gwan,
O'm hie'ngctyd hardd a'm tw'
  'Rwy'n marw yn y man;
Ond enill enw da,
  Drwy bob mwyneidd-dra un wedd,
Cysurol fydd ei sawr,
  Pan byddwy'n llawr y bedd.

Some object of red and white
  Is the beautiful, colourful rose,
The glory of MAY it is,
  It is a worthy design within a garden:
But its delicate foliage,
  Insubstantial, is falling,
Down in an hour; and its image
  Fading in one day.

To the fair twilight of its dawn,
  The great merit despite this is
Superior to the fruitful flowers,
  Through the teeming hollow and the hill;
When completely mortifying fragilely,
  When it loses its colours altogether,
Above the excellent clover are
  Its costly fragfrances.

Another fragile, mottled-white rose
  Is the flowers of the days of man;
The clean-man fair of colour,
  Handsome worthy his image:
Since long he is not able to hold,
  Despite care not likewise to wither;
The hand of time shall reduce him,
  By eating the flesh alive.

Therefore I will not be proud,
  Or a weak, conceited worm,
From my beautiful youth and my growth
  I am dying soon;
But to win a good name,
  Through every tenderness of the same condition,
Comforting will be its savour,
  When I am the floor of the grave.

How fair is the Rose!
    what a beautiful flower!
The glory
    of April and May:
But the leaves are beginning to fade
    in an hour,
And they wither and die
    in a day.

Yet the Rose
    has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers
    of the field!
When its leaves are all dead
    and fine colours are lost,
Still how sweet a perfume
    it will yield!

So frail is the youth
    and the beauty of man,
Though they bloom and look gay
    like the Rose;
But all our fond care
    to preserve them is vain,
Time kills them
    as fast as he goes.

Then I'll not be proud
    of my youth and my beauty,
Since both of them
    wither and fade;
But gain a good name
    by well doing my duty:
This will scent like a Rose
    when I'm dead.