52 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS 



Many for many virtues excellent, 



None but for some, and yet all different. 



O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies 



In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities. 



For nought so vile that on the earth doth live, 



But to the earth some special good doth give ; 



Nor aught so good, but, strain'd from that fair use, 



Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse : 



Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied ; 



And vice sometime's by action dignified. 



Within the infant rind of this small flower 



Poison hath residence, and med'cine power : 



For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each 



part; 



Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. 

 Two such opposed foes encamp them still 

 In man as well as herbs, grace, and rude will ; 

 And where the worser is predominant, 

 Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEABE. 



CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS 



We are the sweet Flowers, 



Born of sunny showers, 

 Think whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith ; 



Utterance mute and bright 



Of some unknown delight, 

 We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath : 



All who see us love us ; 



We befit all places ; 

 Unto sorrow we give smiles; and unto graces, graces. 



