I Will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly quean, Whom, therefore, I will shun: The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun;— But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one. The pea is but a wanton witch, In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand; The wolfsbane I should dread; Nor will I dreary rosemarye, That always mourns the dead; But I will woo the dainty rose, With her cheeks of tender red. The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me; And the daisy’s cheek is tipped with a blush She is of such low degree; Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, And the broom ’s betrothed to the bee;— But I will plight with the dainty rose, For fairest of all is she.
Flowers
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