i will not have the mad clytie,
whose head is turned by the sun;
the tulip is a courtly queen,
whom, therefore, i will shun;
the cowslip is a country wench,
the violet is a nun; —
but i will woo the dainty rose,
the queen of every one.
the pea is but a wanton witch,
in too much haste to wed,
and clasps her rings on every hand;
the wolfsbane i should dread;
nor will i dreary rosemarye,
that always mourns the dead; —
but i will woo the dainty rose,
with her cheeks of tender red.
the lily is all in white, like a saint,
and so is no mate for me —
and the daisy’s cheek is tipped with a blush,
she is of such low degree;
jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
and the broom’s betroth’d to the bee; —
but i will plight with the dainty rose,
for fairest of all is she.