There you lit, still the same, with your colourless cheek;
But you have no spirit—would I were as meek!"
The Primrose, good-humoured, replied, "If you knew
More about him—(remember I'm older than you,
And, better instructed, can tell you his tale)—
You would envy him least of all flowers in this vale;
With all his fine airs and his dazzling show,
No flower more baneful and odious can blow;
And the reason the others before him give way
Is because they all hate him and shrink from his sway.
To stay near him long would be fading or death,
For he scatters a pest with his venomous breath;
While the flowers that you fancy are crowding you there,
Spring round you delighted your converse to share.
His flame-coloured robe is imposing, 'tis true,
Yet who likes it so well as your mantle of blue?
For we know that of innocence one is the vest,
The other the cloak of a treacherous breast.
