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.