Flower o' the broom.
Take away love, and our earth is a tomb!
Flower of the quince,
I let Lisa go, and what good in life since?
Flower of the thyme—and so on. Round they went.
Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter,
Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight,—three slim shapes,
And a face that looked up ... zooks, sir, flesh and blood,
That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went,
Curtain and counterpane and coverlet,