That links me with celestial beings—souls
Who know nor sin, nor sorrow, but by name.
Veronica.
Come, we will sit upon this mossy bank;
And though 't were easier to count the stars
Than number our perfections, thou wilt strive
To execute the task. Behold my lap
Is filled with flowers; Flora never owned
A richer treasure, and the prize shall be
The wreath that Isabel delights in. See
What deep bright tints dye these carnations;
Are they too proud and gaudy for thy sweet
Simplicity? Here is the delicate,
The pale pink rose, the gentle hyacinth,
Who, ere the sterile wintry winds are hush'd,
In pity opes her silken bells to chide
The lingering spring; here is the jessamine,
Whose silver stars will suit thy dark locks well;
The gay jonquil, Titania's ample tent,
And violets, where Puck delights to hide,
