


























F B13, THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
You, honours of the flowry meads, I pray, 
| You pretty daughters of the earth and sun, 
\| With mild and seemly breathing straight display 
My bitter sighs, that have my heart undone! 
H 2 
1 HEART’S-EASE, 
|| BY SHAKSPEARE. 
I saw, | 
Flying between the cold moon and the earth, | 
Cupid all arm’d; a certain aim he took || ‘ate 
At a fair vestal throned in the west. 
And loosed his love-shaft smartlv from his bow, 
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. || 
But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft | 
Quench’d in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon, i 
And the imperial vot’ress passed on, 
in maiden meditation, fancy-free. 
Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell: 
|| It fell upon a little western flower, 
Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wouna, 
And maidens call it Love in Idleness. 
| The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid, 
|| Will make a man or woman madly dote 
Upon the next live creature that 1* sees. 

