i68 
HEART’S-EASE. 
of that herb called heart’s-ease in his bosom, than he that is 
clothed in silk or purple.” 
Probably no flower has ever been endowed with so many 
loving names as has this one. In short, as Leigh Hunt—one 
of its most intense admirers—observes, “The Persians them¬ 
selves have not a greater number of fond appellations for the 
rose, than the people of Europe for the heart’s-ease. . . . The 
modern Latin name for it is Flos Jovis, or Jove’s flower—a 
cognomen rather too worshipful for its little sparkling delicacy, 
and more suitable to the greatness of an hydrangea, or to the 
diadems of a rhododendron. 
“ ‘Jove’s own flower, that shares the violet’s pride, 
Its want of scent with triple charms supplied.’ 
“ The name given to it by the Italians is flammola , the * little 
flame,’ at least, this is an appellation with which I have met, 
and it is quite in the taste of that ardent people. The French 
call it a pens 4 e, ‘ a thought.’ ‘ There are pansies,’ says poor 
Ophelia : ‘ that’s for thoughts.’ Drayton, in his world of 
luxuries, the ‘ Muses’ Elysium,’ where he fairly stifles you with 
sweets, has given, under this name of it, a very brilliant image 
of its effect in a wreath of flowers. The nymph says, 
“ ‘Amongst these roses in a row, 
Next place I pinks in plenty, 
These double daisies then for show; 
And will not this be dainty? 
The pretty pansy then I ’ll tye, 
Like stones some chain enchasing; 
The next to them, their near ally, 
The purple violet placing.’ 
“ Another of its names is ‘ love-in-idleness,’ under which it 
has been again celebrated by Shakspeare, to whom we must 
always return for anything and everything: his fairies make 
potent use of it in the ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ 
“ Besides these names, this tricoloured violet is also called, 
in various country places, ‘ Jump-up-and-kiss-me-quick ; ’ ‘the 
herb Trinity ; ’ ‘ three-faces-under-a-hood ; ’ ‘ kiss-me-behind- 
the-garden-gate ; ’ and ‘ cuddle-me-to-you,’ which seems to 
have been altered by some nice apprehension into the less 
vivacious request of ‘ call-me-to-you.’ ” 
Leigh Hunt continually finds occasion to laud his favourite. 
Thus, in his “Feast of Poets,” he entwines it with the vine 
