56 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
So they, who climb to wealth, forget 
The friends in darker fortunes tried, 
I copied them—but I regret 
That I should ape the ways of pride. 
And when again the genial hour 
Awakes the painted tribes of light, 
I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower 
That made the woods of April bright. 
SONNET. 
SHAKSPEARE. 
The forward violet thus did I chide: 
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that 
smells, 
If not from my love’s breath ? The purple pride 
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells 
In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed. 
The lily I condemned for thy hand, 
And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair : 
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, 
One blushing shame, another white despair: 
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, 
And to his robbery had annexed thy breath ; 
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth 
A vengeful canker eat him up to death : 
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, 
But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee. 
