










212 THE POETRY OF FLUWERS. 
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! 
- 
HEART’S-EASE. 
BY SHAKSPEARE. 
I saw, 
Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
Cupid all arm’d; a certain aim he took 
At a fair vestal throned in the west. 
And loosed his love-shaft smartly 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, 
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 wound, 
And maidens call it Love in Idleness. 
The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid, 
Will make a man or woman madty dote 
Upon the next live creature that it sees. 




























THE 
INTL no! 
The jas 
He Tints 4 
The sto 
‘il many 
hmetr 
‘mole f 
lay bes 
Tete ig a 
With ey 
Hatha 
Ly Naty 
Mite You 
Then 
eval 
Mhen Ja 
be gq 
Vig 
iy fa 
i Issin 
shone 
