Or whose discourse with innocent delight 
Shall fill me now, and cheat the wintry night? 
While hisses on my hearth the pulpy pear, 
And black’ning chestnuts start, and crackle there 
MILTON. 
A woman’s tongue, 
That gives not half so great a blow to th’ ear, 
As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire. 
SHAKSPEARE. 
LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
This flower, whose odour is as agreeable as its form is 
elegant, announces the happy season of May, when 
_-new verdure clothes the plain, 
And earth assumes her transient youth again. 
MILTON. 
And ye, whose lowlier pride 
In sweet seclusion seems to shrink from view,— 
You of the valley named, no longer hide 
Your blossoms meet to twine the brow of purest bride. 
BARTON. 
Then the sweet lily of the vale 
In woodland dells is found, 
While whisp’ring winds its sweets exhale 
And wafi is fragrance round. 
