58 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
And virgin’s-bower, trailing airily, 
With others of the sisterhood. Hard by, 
Stood serene Cupids watching silently. 
One, kneeling to a lyre, touched the strings, 
Muffling to death the pathos with his wings ; 
And, ever and anon, uprose to look 
At the youth’s slumber ; while another took 
A willow bough, distilling odorous dew, 
And shook it on his hair ; another flew 
In through the woven roof, and fluttering wise, 
Rained Violets upon his sleeping eyes. 
SONNET. 
BY SPENSER. 
Sweet is the rose, but growes upon a brere ; 
Sweet is the Juniper, but sharpe his bough ; 
Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere ; 
Sweet is the Firbloom, but his branches rough ; 
Sweet is the Cypress, but his rind is tough, 
Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill ; 
Sweet is the Broome-flowere, but yet sowre enough ; 
And sweet is Moly, but his roote is ill. 
So every sweet with sowre is tempred still, 
That maketh it be coveted the more : 
For easie things that may be got at will, 
Most sorts of men doe set but little store. 
Why then should I account of little pain, 
That endless pleasure shall unto me gaine ? 
