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She has virgins many,
Freshe and faire;
Yet you are
More sweet than any.
Y'are the maiden posies,
And so grac't,
To be plac't
'Fore damask roses.
Yet, though thus respected,
By and by
Ye doe lie,
Poore Girles, neglected.
In these our records of the Romance of Flowers, far be it from us to forget the graceful fables in which the Violet plays her part. Some relate, that the delicate and fragrant blossom was first produced by the earth at the bidding of Jupiter, to be food for Iö during her metamorphosis: others say that Venus, hastening to meet Adonis, trod on a thorn, and that the blood from her celestial foot dyed the flower, which was then white, with its present dim purple.
Herrick tells a story different from both these; and though evidently the coinage of his own prolific Drain, rather than a versification of any popular notion, it is too fanciful to be overlooked.
HOW VIOLETS CAME BLEW.
Love on a day, wise poets tell,
Some time in wrangling spent.
Whether the violet should excell,
Or she, in sweetest scent.
