76 TIE FLOKAl 
MORNING GLORY. 
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden ; 
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to 
be, 
Ere one can say, It lightens. 
Shakspeare. 
A violet in the youth of primy nature, 
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, 
The perfume and suppliance of a minute. 
No more. 
Shakspeare. 
