For there’s a moral in it.—Look you here.
’Tis fair, and sweet, and in its clustered leaves
It carries balmy dew: a precious flower,
And vermeil-tinctured, as are Hebe’s lips.
Yet say, my Mariana, could you bear
To gaze for ever only upon this,
And fling the rest of Flora’s casket by?
Mariana.
No, truly—I would bind it up with more,
And make a fitting posy for my breast.