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THE FLESHLY SCHOOL
OF POETRY
AND OTHER PHENOMENA OF THE DAY
BY ROBERT BUCHANAN
Phœbe.—What pretty flowers are these?
I prithee let me smell!
Clown.Smell, an thou wilt!
These be not flowers for maids. This snow-white thing,
Wood-garlic, doth infect the sylvan air,
And sicken the sweet milk of browsing kine;
The other, purple houndstongue, worse than mice
For smelling cleanly chambers; here, again,
A flower less comely, stinking goosefoot, grows,—
An odour dear to dogs!
Phœbe.Faugh! O how foul!
How name ye this, the tallest and most fair?
Clown. Death-nettle, lady. Touch it not!
Phœbe.I am sick—
I swoon—its foetid breathing fills the air,
Like the most rank corruption of a corse.
A Whip for White Wantons, 1651.
STRAHAN & CO., 56, LUDGATE HILL, LONDON.
