
THE BOUQUET. 


















MARYGOLD — FRENCH, 
DAYETES POTULA. 
Jealousy. 
Nay, chide me not that I am jealous, love! 
For, in my doting fondness, Iam grown 
A very miser of the beauties thrown 
Profusely round thee from the gods above. 
I’m even jealous of the pliant glove 
Embracing oft thy slight and fairy hand; 
And of sly Zephyr, with his whisper bland, 
Who steals a-wooing from the budding grove, 
And dallies o’er thy cheek with soft caress ; 
And of the ray that trembles as it glows 
Upon thy fresh lips’ rosy loveliness ;— 
For that dear hand I would with mine enclose, 
And lip and cheek I would were mine alone, 
And mine the only heart that thou wouldst wish 
, to own. ANON. 



