Classic Poem

Venus a garden had with Roses deckt,
Her joy; which none could see and not affect:
Her son here plucking flowers his head t'adorn,
Prickt his white finger with a piercing Thorn,

Blood from his hand, tears dropping from his eyes,
To his fair Mother running thus he cries.
Who arm'd the Rose with these blood-thirsty spears?
'Gainst me he wars, and yet my colours bears.