Flowers

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 everyone.

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 rosemary
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 blush,
She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom’s betrothed to the bee; –
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.