The Lily.
A haughty beauty is the Rose, she claims the highest place;
But not so dear as that I hold in the true lover's grace,
If his heart beat with love as pure as is my angel face.
The Knight.
Oh, Ladye Lily, my true heart is clear and pure like thee,
Yet cast in prison, long and lone, my weary lot must be—
Still, image of the maid I love, there's one more dear to me.
The Carnation.
That must be me—the gardener's joy and constant care am I;
For beautiful are my striped leaves with many a varied dye—
And odours through my summer-life within those colours lie.
The Knight.
Oh, stately flower, thy radiant leaves arose when morning shone—
Thou settest with the setting sun—yet thou art not mine own:
I ask a little drooping flower that blossometh alone.
The Violet.
I stand amid my large dark leaves, a little hidden flower—
I seldom speak;—if now I break the silence of my bower,
It is to grieve I cannot send my perfume to thy tower.
