Per. Sir, the year growing ancient,
Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, the [fairest] flowers o' the season
Are our carnations and streak'd [gillyvors],
Which some [call] nature's bastards: of that kind
Our rustic [garden's] barren; and I care not
To get slips of them.
85
Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden,
Do you neglect them?