Thus guardian gods' true names were feldom | known,

Left fome invading foe might charm 'em from the

town.

Impudent Fool! that first styl'd beauteous Flow'rs
By a detefted name, the Ears of Bears;
Worthy himself of affes' ears, a pair
Fairer than Midas once was faid to wear.

[our's)

At this rate finging (for your merry Flow'rs Still fing their words, not bring 'em forth like The Daffodil fucceeded, once a youth, (As many poets tell, a facred truth) And all his clients and his kindred came, A num'rous train, to vote and poll for him; All of 'em, pale or yellow, did appear, The livery which wounded lovers wear. Though Virgil purple honours has aflign'd And bluish dye, too liberal and kind,

The Chalcedonic, with white Flow'r, thought beft To be the mouth, and fing for all the reft.

The Daffodil; Narciffus.

WHAT once I was, a boy, not ripen'd to a man,
My roots of one year's growth explain;
A lovely boy, of killing eyes,
Where ambufcading witchcraft lies,

Which did at last the owner's felf surprise :
Of fatal beauty, fuch as could infpire
Love into coldeft breafts, in water kindle fire.
Me the hotbeds of fand in Libya burn,
Or Ifter's frozen banks to ruin turn.
I, when a boy, among the boys
Had ftill the nobleft place;

The fame my Plant among the Flow'rs enjoys,
And is the garden's ornament and grace;
Become a Flow'r, I cannot tell

Why my face fhould not please me ftill;
Downward I lean my bending head,
Longing my looks in the fame glass to read;
Shew me a ftream, that liquid glass
Will put me in the felfsame cafe.

In the colour with the fame nymphs I'm drefs'd,
Who wear me in their fnowy breast,

Who with my Flow're their pride maintain,
And wish I were a boy again.

She fpoke: Anemone her ftation took,

To whom the goddefs deign'd a smiling look;
For with the Tulip's leave, I needs must say,
No race more num'rous, none more fine or gay.
The Purple, with its large and fpreading leaf,
Was chofen, by confent, to be their chief;
Of fair Adonis' blood undoubted strain,
And to this hour it fhews the dying ftain:
As foon as Zephyr had unloos'd its tongue,
The beauteous Plant after this manner fung.

That air with which thou ev'ry thing doft cheer
Infpire into the goddess' car,

That the fair Judge would mindful be
Of her lov'd confort and of me;
For fince I take my name from thee,
Nay, of thy kindred said to be;
Since I with thec do fympathize,
Who in Æolian dungcon captive lies,
And viewing Zephyr's doleful state,
All drefs and ornament I hate,

[blood;

And locking up my mournful Flow'r, [dure:
Myfelf a pris'ner make, the fame restraint en-
Since I have change of fuits and gaudy vefts,
Which in my various Flowers are exprefs'd;
In brief, fince I'm a-kin to gods above,
All thefe together, fure, may favour move;
Sprung from the fair Adonis' purple tide,
And Venus' tears, to both I am ally'd;
The rofy youth, the lov'd Adonis, ftood
The pride and glory of the wood,
Till a boar's fatal tufk let out the precious
Into each flowing drop that still'd,
A falling tear the goddess spill'd,
Which to a bloody torrent fwell'd:
The lovers' tears and blood combine,
As if they would in marriage join.
From fuch fair parents, and that wedding morn
Was I, their fairer offspring, born.
My force and pow'r, perhaps, you queftion now;
My power? why, I a handfome face can shew;
Befides, my heav'nly extract I can prove,
And that I'm fifter to the god of Love.

The Crown Imperial (as fhe ftepp'd afide)
Advanc'd with ftately but becoming pride;
Not bufkin'd heroes ftrut with nobler pride,
Nor gods in walking ufe a finer stride;

No friends or clients made her train, not one;
Confcious of native worth fhe came alone;
With an erect and fober countenance

In following terms fhe did her plea commence.

The Imperial Crown.

WITH furious heats and unbecoming rage,
Ye Flow'ry Nations! cease t' engage;
Since on my stately stem

Nature has plac'd th' Imperial diadem,
Why all thefe words in vain? why all this noife?
Be judg'd by Nature, and approve her choice.
Perhaps it does your envy move,

And to my right may hurtful prove,
That I an upftart novel Flower am,

Who have no rumbling hard Greck name
Perhaps I may be thought

In fome plebeian bed begot,

Because my lineage wears no ftain,

Nor does romantic fhameful ftories feign

That I am fprung from Jove, or from his baftard

ftrain.

I freely own I have not been
Long of your world a denizen;
But yet I reign'd for ages pass'd,
In Perfia and in Bactria plac'd,

The pride and joy of all the gardens of the East.

My Flow'r a large-fiz'd golden head does wear,
Much like the ball kings in their hands do bear;
Denoting fov'reign rule, and ftriking fear.
My purple stalk I, like fome fceptre, wield,
Worthy in regal hands to fhine,
Worthy of thine, great god of Wine!

When India to thy conquering arms did yield.
Befides all this, I have a Flow'ry crown
My royal temples to adorn,

Whofe buds a fort of honey-liquor bear,

Which round the crown like ftars or pearls appear;
Silver threads around it twine,

Saffron, like gold, with them does join;
And over all

My verdant hair does neatly fall.
Sometimes a threefold rank of Flowers
Grows on my top, like lofty towers.
Imperial ornaments I fcorn,

And, like the Pope, affect a triple crown;
The Heav'ns look down, and envy earth
For teeming with fo bright a birth;
For Ariadne's ftarry crown
By mine is far outfhone,

And as they 'ave reafon, let 'em envy on.
She thunder'd out her fpeech, and walk'd to greet
The Judge, not falling meanly at her feet,
But as one goddefs does another meet.

A Flow'r that would too happy be and bless'd,
Did but its odour answer all the reft,
The Tulip next appear'd, all over gay,
But wanton, full of pride, and full of play;
The world can't fhew a dye but here has place,
Nay, by new mixtures fhe can change her face.
Purple and gold are both beneath her care,
The richest needle-work the loves to wear;
Her only ftudy is to please the eye,
And to outshine the reft in finery;
Oft' of a mode or colour weary grown,

By which their family had long been known, They'll change their fashion itraight, I know not how,

And with much pain in other colours go;
As if Medea's furnace they had pafs'd,
(She without Plants old Æfon ne'er new-caft)
And tho' they know this change will mortal prove,
They'll venture yet---to change fo much they
love.

Such love to beauty, fuch the thirst of praise,
That welcome death before inglorious days!
The caufe by all was to the White affign'd,
Whether, because the rarest of the kind,
Or elfe, because ev'ry petitioner,

In ancient times, for office, white did wear.

The Tulip.

SOMEWHERE in Horace, if I don't forget,
(Flow'rs are no foes to poetry and wit,
For us that tribe the like affection bear,
And of all men the greatest Floritts are)
We find a wealthy man

Whofe wardrobe did five thousand fuits contain ;
He counted that a vast prodigious tore,
But I that number have twice told, and more.

Whate'er in fpring the teeming earth commands;
What colours e'er the painted pride of birds,
Or various lights the glist'ring gem affords,
Cut by the artful lapidary's hands;

Whate'er the curtains of the heav'ns can fhew,
Or light lays dyes upon the varnish'd bow,
Rob'd in as many vefts I fhine,

In ev'ry thing bearing a princely mien.
Pity I must the Lily and the Rose,

(And the laft blushes at her threadbare clothes)
Who think themfelves fo highly blefs'd,

Yet have but one poor tatter'd vest.
Thefe ftudious, unambitious things, in brief,
Would fit extremely well a college-life,

And when the god of Flow'rs a charter grants,
Admiffion fhall be given to these Plants:
Kings fhould have plenty and fuperfluous store,
Whilft thriftinefs becomes the poor.

Hence Spring himielf does chiefly me regard:
Will any Flow'r refufe to ftand to his award?
Me for whole months he does retain,
And keeps me by him all his reign;
Carefs'd by Spring, the fcafon of the year
Which before all to Love is dear.
Befides, the god of Love himself 's my friend,
Not for my face alone, but for another end;
Lov'd by the god upon a private score,
I know for what---but fay no more.
But why fhould I

Become fo filent or fo fhy?

We Flow'rs were by no peevish fire begot,
Nor from that frigid fullen tree did sprout,
So fam'd in Ceres' facred rites;

Nor in morofencfs Flora's felf delights.
My root, like oil in ancient games, prepares
Lovers for battle, or thofe fofter wars;

My quick'ning heat their fluggish veins infpires
With vigorous and sprightly fires;

Had but chafte Lucrece us'd the fame,
The night before bold Tarquin try'd his flame,
Upon record the ne'er a fool had been,

But would have liv'd to reap the pleasure once again.
The goddefs, confcious of the truth, a while
Contain d, but then was seen to blush and imile.
The Flower-de-luce next loos'd her heav'nly
tongue,

And thus, amidst her sweet companions, fung.

Iris; or, The Flower-de-luce.

Ir empire is to beauty due,

(And that in Flow'rs, if any where, holds true)
Then I by nature was defign'd for reign,
Elfe nature made a beauteous face in vain.
Befides, I boaft a sparkling gem,

And brighter goddefs of my rame.

My lefty rent towards the heav'ns I hear,
And reprefent the fky, when 'tis ferene and clear.
To me a godlike pow'r is given

With a mild face refembling heav'n;
And in the kingly ftyle no dignity
Sounds better than Serenity!
Beauty and Envy cft' together go;
Handiome myfelf, I help make others fo

*The juice of the root takes away freckles and morphews.

With fragrance from my root that blows.

Not Sibaris or foft Capua did know

A choicer Flow'r for fmell or fhew,

Though both with pleasure of all kinds did flow.
I own the Violet and the Rofe
Divineft odours both disclose;
The Saffron and Stockgillyflower,
With many more;

But yet none can fo fweet a root produce*,
My upper parts are trim and fair,
My lower breathe a grateful air.

I am a Flow'r for fight, a drug for use.
Soft as I am, amidst this luxury,
Before me rough difeafes fly.
Thus a bold Amazon with virgin-face,
Troops of daftard men will chafe :
Thus Mars and Venus often greet,
And in fingle Pallas meet:
Equal to her in beauty's charms,
And not to him inferior in arms.

By fecret virtue and refiftlefs power

Those whom the jaundice feizes, I restore;

Though moift with unguent, and inclin'd to love, I rather was for luxury defign'd;

And yet, like fome enraged lioness,

Before my painted arms the yellow foe does hafte.
The Dropfy headlong makes away
As foon as I my arms difplay,

The Dropfy, which man's microcofm drowns,
Pulling up all the fluices in its rounds;
I follow it through ev'ry winding vein,
And make it quit in hafte the delug'd man.
The nation of the Jews, a pious folk,
Though our gods they don't invoke,
And not to you, ye Plants! unknown
I' th' days of that great florift Solomon,
Tell us that Jove, to cheer the drooping ball,"
After the flood a promife paft,
That fo long as earth should last,

No future deluge on the world fhould fall;
And as a fcal to this obliging grant,
The rainbow in the fky did plant.

I am that bow, in poor hydropic man
The fame refreshing hopes contain;
I look as gay, and fhew as fine,

I am the thing of which that only is the fign:
My Plant performs the fame,
Towards man's little worldly frame;
And when within him I appear,
He needs no deluge from a dropfy fear.

The Peony then, with large red Flow'r, came on,
And brought no train but his lov'd mate alone;
Numbers could not make him the caufe efpoufe,
'Las! the whole nation made but one poor house;
Nor did her cofly wardrobe pride infpire,
All dress d alike, all did one colour wear;
And yet he wanted not for majesty,
Appearing with a fober gravity;

For he advanc'd his purple forehead, which
A Flower with thoufand foldings did enrich :

Of the root is made that called Powder of Cyprus, or Orris Powder.

Some love to call it the Illuftrious Plant,
And we may well, I think, that title grant;
Physicians in their public writing fhew
What praife is to the first inventor due.
Pæon * was doctor to the gods, they fay,
By the whole college honour'd to this day:
With her own merits, and this mighty name,
Hearten'd and buoy'd, the thus maintain'd her claim.

Paonia; the Peony.

Ir the fond Tulip, fwell'd with pride,
In her fool's coat of metely colours dy'd;
If lov'd Adonis' Flower, the Celandine,
Would proudly be preferr'd to mine,
Then let Jove's bird, the eagle, quit the field,
The thunder to the painted peacock yield;
Then let the tyrant of the woods be gone,
The lion yield to the cameleon.

You'll fay, perhaps, the nymphs make much of you,
They gather me for garlands too:

And yet, do ye think I value that?

Not I, by Flora! not a jot.

Virtue and courage are the valuable things
On difficult occations fhewn :
Not painted arms ennoble kings;
Virtue alone gives luftre to a crown.
Hence I the known Herculean difeafe,
The falling-fickness, cure with ease,
Which, like the club that here once did wear,
Down with one fingle blow mankind does bear.
I fancy hence the story rise,

That Pluto, wounded once by Hercules,
My juice, infus'd by Pæon, gave him ease,
And did the groaning god appeafe.

Pæon was fam'd, I'm fure, for curing this difcafe.
Pluto is god of Hell; it fhould feem
Prince of inexorable Death;

Now this difeafe is death! but not like him,
Without a fting, plac'd in the fhades beneath.
I fhould be vain, extremely vain, indeed,
A quarrel on punctilios to breed,
Since a more noble Flow'r than I
The Sun in all his journey does not spy:
Nor do I go in Phyfic's beaten road,
By other Plants before me trod,
But in a way worthy a healing god.

I never with the foe come hand to hand;
My odour death does at a distance fend;
Hung round the neck, ftraight, without more ado,
I put to flight the rampant foe:

I neither come (what think you, Cæfar! now)
Nor view the camp, and yet can overthrow.
She fpoke, and bow'd, and fo the court forfook.
Her confort follow'd with a blufhing look;
When straight a fragrant air of ftrong perfume,
And a new luftre, darted through the room.
No wonder, for the Rofe did next appear;
Spring wifely plac'd his best and choiceft troops
the rear.

Some wild in woods, yet worth and beauty fhew,
Such as might in Hefperian gardens grow.

Homer fays, Pena cured Pluto with this Plant when he was wounded by Hercules.

Nought by experience than the Wood Rofe found,

Better to cure a mad dog's pois'nous wound:
This brings away the gravel and the stone,
And gives you cafe though to a quarry grown.
The beauteous Garden Rofe fhe did not flame,
Though better bred, and of a fofter name;
Which in four fquadrons drawn, the Damask Rofe,
In name of all the reft maintain'd the caufe;
Which fprung, they fay, from Syrian Venus'
blood,

Long time the pride of rich Damafcus stood.

The Rofe.

AND who can doubt my race, fays fhe,
Who on my face Love's token fee!

The god of Love is always foft, and always young;
I am the fame; then to his blood what wrong?
My brother winged does appear;

I leaves instead of wings do wear :

He's drawn with lighted torches in his hand;
Upon my top bright flaming glories ftand.
The Rofe has prickles, fo has Love,
Though thefe a little fharper prove:

Let proud ambitions Floramour, Ufurping on the gods' immortal name, Joy to be ftyl'd the Everlasting Flower,

I ne'er knew yet that plant that near to Neftor

came.

We too, too blefs'd, too pow'rful fhould be grown,
Which would but envy raise,

If we could fay our beauty were our own,
Or boaft long life and many days.
But why fhould I complain of Fate
For giving me fo fhort a date?

Since Flowers, the emblems of mortality,
All the fame way and manner die :
But the kind gods above forbid
That Virtue e'er a grave fhould find;
And though the Fatal Sifters cut my thread,
My odour, like the foul, remains behind.
Though once the king of all the favage herd.
To a dead lion a live worm's preferr'd,
After my death I still excel

The beft of Flowers that are alive and well:
If that the name of dead will bear,
From whofe mere corpfe does come,
(Like the dead body's still-furviving heir)
So fweet a fmell and ftrong perfume.
Let them invent a thousand ways

But would for Rofy-colour'd go;

This is the dye that ftill does pleafe
Both mortal maids and heav'nly goddeffes:
I am the ftandard by which beauty's try'd,
The wish of Chloe, and immortal Juno's pride.
The bright Aurora, queen of all the Eaft,
Proud of her Rofy fingers is confefs'd;
When from the gates of Light the rifing Day
Breaks forth, his conftant rounds to go,
The winged Hours prepare the way,
And Rofy clouds before him ftrow.
The windows of the fky with Rofes fhine;
I am Day's ornament as well as fign;

And when the glorious pomp and tour is o'er,
1 greet it pofting to the Weftern fhore.
The god of Love, we muft allow,
Should tolerably beauty know :
Yet never from thofe checks he goes,
Where he can fpy the blufhing Rofe.
Thus the wife bee will never dwell
(That, like the god of Love, has wings;
That, too, has honey, that has ftings)

On vulgar Flow'rs that have no grateful smell.
Tell me, blefs'd Lover! what's a kifs,
Without a Rofy lip create the blifs?
Nor do I only charming fweets difpenfe,
But bear arms in my own and man's defence:
I, without the patient's pain,

Man's body, that Augean ftable, clean;
Not with a rough and preffing hand,
As thunder-ftorms from clouds command,
But as the dew and gentle fhowers
Diffolving light on Herbs and Flowers:
Nor of a fhort and fading date,

Was I the lefs defign'd for rule and state;

The roft is fuld at feft to have grown white enir, till Venus, running after Adonis, feratched her legs upon its thoras, and Rained the towered with her blood.

Though in a fweating limbec pent,
My afhes fhall preferve their fcent.
Like a dead monarch to the grave I come,
Nature embalms me in my own perfume.
She spoke; a virgin blush came o'er her face,
And an ambrofias fcent flew round the place;
But that which gave her words a finer grace,
Not without fome constraints fhe feem'd to tell
her praife.

Her rivals trembled; for the Judge's look
A fecret pleasure and much kindness spoke.
The virgin did not for wellwifhers lack,
Her kindred-fquadrons ftood behind her back:
The Yellow neareft ftood, unfit for war,
Nor did the fpoils of cur'd diseases bear ;
The White was next, of great and good renown,
A kind affiftant to the eye-fight known,
The third, a mighty warrior, was the Red,
Which terribly her bloody banner spread :
She binds the flux with her reftringent arts,
And ftops the humours' journey to those parts;
She brings a prefent and a fure relief

To head and heart, the fountains both of life:
The fever's fires by her are mildness taught,
And the hagg d man to fweet composure brought.
By help of this, Jafon of old, we read,
Yok'd and fubdu ́d the Bulls of fiery breed:
One dofe to fleep the watchful Dragon fent,
By which no more but an high fever's meant.
Between this fquadron and the White, we're told,
A long and grievous ftrife commenc'd of old;
Strife is too foft a word for many years'
Cruel, unnatural, and bloody, wars:
The fam'd Pharfalian fields, twice dy'd in blood,
Ne'er of a nobler quarrel witness stood;

The thirst of empire, ground of most our wars,
Was that which folely did occafion theirs;