The Poetry of the Rose. 37 



So/nerset Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, 

 But dare maintain the party of the truth, 

 Pluck a red Rose from off this thorn with me. 



Warwick I love no colours, and without all colour . 

 Of base insinuating flattery, 

 I pluck this white Rose with Plantagenet. 



Suffolk I pluck this red Rose with young Somerset, 

 And say withal, I think he held the right. 



Vernon Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more, 

 Till you conclude that he upon whose side 

 The fewest Roses are cropped from the tree 

 Shall yield the other in the right opinion. 



Somerset Good Master Vernon, it is well objected : 

 If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. 



Plantagenet And I. 



Vernon Then for the truth and plainness of the case, 

 I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here, 

 Giving my verdict on the white Rose side. 



Somerset Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, 

 Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white Rose red, 

 And fall on my side so, against your will. 



Vernon If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, 

 Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt, 

 And keep me on the side where still I am. 



Shakespeare (Henry VI., Act II. , Scene 4). 



From the allusions of Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and others, it is evident the 

 Rose was a favourite flower, at least among the poets in England some centuries 

 since ; and this I should have thought a sufficient passport to public favour. That 

 they did not owe their love and respect for this flower to the existence of superior 

 garden varieties, or to an interest displayed in their cultivation by their countrymen, 

 is I think sufficiently evident. But the wild forms of Roses are beautiful, and they 

 probably gave rise to these effusions. Or the poets might owe their veneration 

 for them to the writings of the ancients, with which they were most probably 

 familiar. 



Were I to pursue the plan of quoting all the agreeable things which our poets have 

 written on the Rose, that matter alone would fill a considerable volume. "In every 

 love song roses bloom." I can therefore only make a selection from the time of 



Shakespeare. 



Emil. Of all flowers, 

 Methinks the Rose is best. 



Serv. Why, gentle madam ? 



Emil. It is the very emblem of a maid ; 

 For when the west wind courts her gently, 

 How modestly she blows and paints the sun 

 With her chaste blushes ; when the north comes near her, 

 Rude and impatient, then, like chastity, 

 She locks her beauties in her bud again, 

 And leaves him to base briars.' 



Beaumont and Fletcher. 



