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Heavenly lilies with lockerand toppis white
Opened, and shew their crestis redemite,
The balmy vapour from their silver croppis
Distilland wholesome sugared honey-droppis,
So that ilke burgeon, scion, herb, or flower
Wose all embalmed of the sweet liquore
And bathed did in dulce humoures flete

Whereof the beeis wrought their honey sweet.

GAWAIN DOUGLAS, Bishop of Dunkeld.

Barmekyn, barbican; pers, light blue; burnet, brownish; gules, scarlet; fauchcolour, fawn; celestial gre, sky-blue; haw-waly, dark-waved; lite, little; flowerdamas, damask rose; rose-knobbis tetand, rose-buds peeping; kyth, show; locherand, curling; redemite, crowned; croppis, heads.

ARRANGEMENTS OF A BOUQUET.

Here damask roses, white and red,

Out of my lap first take I,

Which still shall run along the thread
My chiefest flower this make I.

Among these roses in a row,

Next place I pinks in plenty,

These double pansies then for show,
And will not this be dainty?

The pretty pansy then I'll tie

Like stones some chain enchasing;

And next to them, their near ally,
The purple violet placing.

The curious choice clove July flower,
Whose kind hight the carnation,
For sweetness of most sovereign power,
Shall help my wreath to fashion;

Whose sundry colors of one kind,
First from one root derived,
Them in their several suits I'll bind:
My garland so contrived.

A course of cowslips then I'll stick,
And here and there (so sparely)
The pleasant primrose down I'll prick,
Like pearls that will show rarely;

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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 mark'd 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 madly dote

Upon the next live creature that it sees.

W. SHAKSPEARE, 1564-1616.

THE GARLAND.

The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, the lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.

At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flowers she wore along the day;

And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undress'd at evening, when she found Their odors lost, their colors past, She changed her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well,

"My love, my life," said I, "explain This change of humor; pr'ythee tell : That falling tear-what does it mean?"

She sigh'd; she smiled and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said—
"See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made!”

Ah me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty, are but one:
At morn both flourish bright and gay;
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.
At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,
The amorous youth around her bow'd:
At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud.

Such as she is, who died to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;
Go, Damon, bid the Muse display
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.

TO PRIMROSES

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

MATTHEW PRIOR, 1664–1721.

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears

Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn
Teem'd her refreshing dew!
Alas! ye have not known that shower

That mars a flower;

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;

Nor are ye worn with years;
Or warp'd as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and weep;

Is it for want of sleep,

Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet

The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweetheart to this?

No, no; this sorrow shown,

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read:

That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth

ROBERT HERRICK, 1591.

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