76
THE FLORAL
MORNING GLORY.
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,
Ere one can say, It lightens.
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,
Ere one can say, It lightens.
Shakspeare.
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,
The perfume and suppliance of a minute,
No more.
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,
The perfume and suppliance of a minute,
No more.
Shakspeare.
