The place for these, and for the rest
Of flowers, was thy spotlesse breast.
Over the which a state was drawn
Of tiffanie, on cob-web lawne;
There in that parly, all those powers
Voted the Rose the queen of flowers;
But so, as that herself should be
The maide of honour unto thee.
In "The Gentleman of Venice," by Shirley (a dramatic writer of great merit but small popularity), is this very lively and poetic dialogue between a fair Lady and a young Gardener:—
Belaura.
You are conceited, Sirra, does wit grow in this garden?
Georgio.
Yea, Madam, while I am in it, I am a slip myself.
Bel.
Of rosemary or thyme?
Geo.
Of wit, sweet madam.
Bel.
'Tis pity, but thou shoulds't be kept with watering.
Geo.
There's wit in every flower, if you can gather it.
Bel.
I am of thy mind, But what's the wit, prethee, of yonder tulip?
Geo.
You may read there the wit of a young courtier; Pride, and show of colours, a fair promising, Deare when 'tis bought, and quickly comes to nothing.
Bel.
The wit of that rose?—
Geo.
If you attempt, Madam, to pluck a Rose, I shall find a moral in't.—
Signior Georgio expecting that in gathering the Rose the Lady would wound her hand, and thus show that pain often succeeds to pleasure.
Although not entirely in praise of the Rose, the following sonnet of Spencer is so good and graceful that I shall quote it here:—
