THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Dock . Patience. 
Oh, soothe her breast, ye rocks around. 
With softest sympathy of sound.— Darwift. 
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.— Gray. 
Dodder of Thyme .. ... Baseness. 
Dost thou thirst, base Trojan, 
To have me fold up Parca’s fatal web ?— Shakespeare. 
Dogsbane . Deceit. Falsehood. 
Oh, what a goodly outside Falsehood hath.— Shakespeare. 
Dogwood . Dnrahihty. 
Though earth may shroud Harmodius now. 
We still have sword and myrtle bough.— Hemans. 
Dragon Plant . Sna/'c. 
He, the deceiver. 
Who could win maiden’s breast. 
Run, and leave her.— Scott. 
Dragonwort . Horror. 
With screaming Plorror's funeral cry. 
Dried Flax . Utility. 
Want beareth ye colde truely, or man. 
Ye hissinge of a goose.— Sayle. 
