Heavenly lilies with lockerand toppis white Whereof the beeis wrought their honey sweet. GAWAIN DOUGLAS, Bishop of Dunkeld. Barmckyn, barbican; pers, light blue; burnet, brownish; gules, scarlet; fauchcolour, fawn; celestial gre, sky-blue; haw-waly, dark-waved; lite, little; flowerdamas, damask rose; rose-knobbis tetand, rose-buds peeping; kyth, show; locherand, curling; redemite, crowned; croppis, heads. ARRANGEMENTS OF A BOUQUET. Here damask roses, white and red, Out of my lap first take I, Which still shall run along the thread Among these roses in a row, Next place I pinks in plenty, These double pansies then for show, The pretty pansy then I'll tie Like stones some chain enchasing; And next to them, their near ally, The curious choice clove July flower, Whose sundry colors of one kind, A course of cowslips then I'll stick, Then with these marigolds I'll make The lily and the fleur-de-lis, The daffodil most dainty is, To match with these in meetness; These in their natures only are Sweet-williams, campions, sops-in-wine, Thus have I made this wreath of mine, MICHAEL DRAYTON, 1563-1681. HEART'S-EASE. I saw, Flying between the cold moon and the earth, At a fair vestal throned in the west. And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon. In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness. The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid, Will make a man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. W. SHAKSPEARE, 1564-1616. THE GARLAND. The pride of every grove I chose, The flowers she wore along the day; And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undress'd at evening, when she found Their odors lost, their colors past, She changed her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast. That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well, "My love, my life," said I, "explain This change of humor; pr'ythee tell : That falling tear-what does it mean?" She sigh'd; she smiled: and to the flowers Ah me! the blooming pride of May, At dawn poor Stella danced and sung, |