" Ye violets that first appeare, 



By your pure purple mantles known, 

 Like the proud virgins of the yeare, 

 As if the spring were all your own ; 

 What are you when the Rose is blown ? 



" Ye curious chaunters of the wood, 



That warble forth Dame Nature's layes, 

 Thinking your passion understood 

 By your weak accents ; what 's your praise, 

 When Philomell her voyce shall raise ? 



" So, when my mistress shall be scene 

 In sweetness of her looks and minde ; 

 By virtue first, then choyce a queen; 

 Tell me, if she was not design'd 

 Th' eclypse and glory of her kind ? " 



A pretty rondeau by Mr. Monk- 

 house, a tribute of the nineteenth 

 century, runs as follows : — 



" VIOLET. 



" Violet delicate, sweet, 



Down in the deep of the wood, 

 Hid in thy still retreat. 

 Far from the sound of the street, 

 Man and his merciless mood: — 



" Safe from the storm and the heat, 

 Breathing of beauty and good 

 Fragrantly, under thy hood, 



Violet. 



56 



