34 THE FLORAL 
LOCUST. 
Beauty has corrupted thy heart. That 
little face ! shame on thee! In the morning 
its splendor dies, its rose sheds its leaves. 
Swallows that love in the spring-time fly 
when the north-wind blows. Thine autumn 
will frighten away thy lovers. 
Schiller. 
A very, very—peacock! 
Shakspeare. 
