Which Venus hearing, thither came
And for their boldness stripped them;
And taking thence from each his flame
With rods of Myrtle whipped them.
Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she’s seen them,
She kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes,
And gave the bag between them.
We can do no better than give thanks for all our garden, our house, and our well-being in the words of the same poet. For we need to thank, somehow, for all the joys Nature gives us. Though, in this poem, he names no flowers, yet his poems are full of them:
“—That I, poor I,