Heavenly lilies with lockerand toppis white 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 Among these roses in a row, Next place I pinks in plenty, These double pansies then for show, The pretty pansy then I'll tie Like stones some chain enchasing; And next to them, their near ally, The curious choice clove July flower, Whose sundry colors of one kind, A course of cowslips then I'll stick, Flying between the cold moon and the earth, And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, 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, Upon the next live creature that it sees. W. SHAKSPEARE, 1564-1616. THE GARLAND. The pride of every grove I chose, At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place 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 Ah me! the blooming pride of May, Such as she is, who died to-day, 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 That mars a flower; Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years; Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known 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. |