AUGUST 
You sun-burned sicklemen, of August weary, 
Come hither from the furrow, and be merry : 
Make holiday : your rye-straw hats put on, 
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one 
In country footing. 
Tempest, IV. i. 135. 
\ UGUST, with its dry days and heat, when the 
± ^ first fresh green of the early summer has long- 
passed away, and the leaves seem hot and dusty—and 
in very sooth, what with attacks of insects and 
variations of climate and atmospheric conditions, no 
wonder they show signs of fatigue and their little 
breathing mouths become choked—yet even now new 
flowers spring up to greet us with their multitudinous 
hosts. First of all, in some favoured gardens and 
within our greenhouses, that most dainty of all ever¬ 
greens, the myrtle (Myrtus communis ), is putting 
forth its delicate, wax-like, white flower-buds. 
Although no longer considered so delicate and rare 
as in Shakespeare’s days, few plants are much more 
trouble to acclimatize, and it is rarely seen in perfec¬ 
tion out-of-doors save on our south-western coasts. 
Though said to have been grown more frequently in 
the open air in Elizabethan times, yet it was intro¬ 
duced very possibly at an early date, and certainly 
by 1629. As the flower of Venus it was in great 
request for bridal wreaths, and was looked upon as 
the emblem of refined beauty. The poet uses it 
chiefly in the Passionate Pilgrim , where we read : 
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