Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
Byron.
Myrtle.... Love.
The Myrtle has ever been consecrated to Venus. At Rome, the temple of the goddess was surrounded by a grove of Myrtles; and in Greece, she was adorned under the name of Myrtilla. It was observed by the ancients, that, wherever the Myrtle grew, it excluded all other plants. So love, wherever it is permitted to grow, excludes all other feelings. The ladies of modern Rome retain a strong affection for this plant, preferring its odour to that of the most fragrant essences.
Our love came as the early dew
Comes unto drooping flowers;
Dropping its first sweet freshness on
Our life’s dull, lonely hours.
Love is a celestial harmony
Of likely hearts, composed of stars’ consent,
Which join together in sweet sympathy,
To work each other’s joy and true content,
Which they have harboured since their first descent,
Out of their heavenly bowers, where they did see
And know each other here beloved to be.
Spenser.
I have done penance for contemning love;
Whose high imperious thoughts have punished me
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,
With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs.
Shakspeare.