In the following discourse there is nothing presented but sweet flowers and herbs: I could wish it had been in the summertime, when the heat of the sun might have improved their fragrance to the greatest advantage and rendered them more acceptable to the smell of the reader, being now sadly sensible that autumn, the usher of winter, will abate of their sweetness, and present them much to their loss …

It is desired that this discourse may but find as much candidness as it brings, and be entertained according to his own innocency. I have heard a story of an envious man, who had no other way to be revenged of his neighbor, who abounded with store of beehives, than by poisoning all the flowers in his own garden, wherein his neighbors’ bees took their constant repast, which infection caused a general mortality in all the winged cattle of his neighbor. I hope none have so splenetic a design against this my harmless treatise, as to envenom my flowers with pestilent and unintended interpretations, as if any thing more than flowers were meant in the flowers, or as if they had so deep a root underground, that men must mine to understand some concealed and profound mystery therein. Surely, this mythology is a cabinet which needeth no key to unlock it; the lid or cover lieth open.

*  *  *

There was a place in Thessaly (and I am sorry to say there was a place in Thessaly, for though the place be there still, yet it is not itself. The bones thereof remain, not the flesh and color; the standards of hills and rivers, not the ornaments of woods, bowers, groves, and banqueting-houses. These long since are defaced by the Turks, whose barbarous natures wage war with civility itself, and take a delight to make a wilderness where before their conquest they found a Paradise). This place is some five miles in length, and though the breadth be coequal with the length, to equalize the same, and may so seem at the first sight, yet it falleth short upon exact examination, as extending but to four miles. This place was by the poets called Tempe, as the abridgment of earthly happiness, showing that in shorthand which the whole world presented in a larger character. No earthly pleasure was elsewhere afforded, but here it might be found in the height thereof. Within this circuit of ground there is still extant, by the rare preservation of the owner, a small scantling of some three acres, which I might call the Tempe of Tempe, and re-epitomized the delicacies of all the rest. It was divided into a garden, in the upper part whereof flowers did grow; in the lower, herbs, and those of all sorts and kinds. And now in springtime Earth did put on her new clothes, though had some cunning herald beheld the same, he would have condemned her coat to have been of no ancient bearing, it was so overcharged with variety of colors. For there was yellow marigold, wallflowers, auriculas, gold-knops,1 and abundance of other nameless flowers, which would pose2 a nomenclator3 to call them by their distinct denominations. There was white—the daisy, white roses, lilies, &c.; blue—violet, iris; red—roses, peonies, &c. The whole field was vert or green, and all colors were present save sable, as too sad and doleful for so merry a meeting; all the children of Flora being summoned there, to make their appearance at a great solemnity. Nor was the lower part of the ground less stored with herbs, and these so various, that if Gerard himself had been in the place, upon the beholding thereof he must have been forced to a re-edition of his Herbal, to add the recruit of those plants, which formerly were unseen by him, or unknown unto him.

In this solemn rendezvous of flowers and herbs, the Rose stood forth, and made an oration to this effect: “It is not unknown to you, how I have the precedency of all flowers confirmed unto me, under the patent of a double sense: sight, smell. What, more curious colors ? How do all dyers blush when they behold my blushing, as conscious to themselves that their art cannot imitate that tint which Nature hath stamped upon me. Smell, it is not lusciously offensive, nor dangerously faint, but comforteth with a delight, and delighteth with the comfort thereof. Yea, when dead, I am more sovereign than living. What cordials are made of my syrups? How many corrupted lungs (those fans of nature), sore wasted with consumption, that they seem utterly unable any longer to cool the heat of the heart with their ventilation, are, with conserves made of my stamped leaves, restored to their former soundness again? More would I say in mine own cause, but that haply I may be taxed of pride and self-flattery, who speak much in mine own behalf, and therefore I leave the rest to the judgment of such as hear me, and pass from this discourse to my just complaint. There is lately a flower (Shall I call it so? In courtesy I will term it so, though it deserve not the appellation), a Tulip, which hath ingrafted the love and affections of most people into it. And what is this Tulip? A well-complexioned stink, an ill savor wrapped up in pleasant colors. As for the use thereof in physic, no physician hath honored it yet with the mention, nor with a Greek or Latin name, so inconsiderable hath it hitherto been accounted. And yet this is that which filleth all gardens, hundreds of pounds being given for the root thereof, whilst I, the Rose, am neglected and contemned, and conceived beneath the honor of noble hands, and fit only to grow in the gardens of yeomen. I trust the remainder to your apprehensions, to make out that which grief for such undeserved injuries will not suffer me to express.” Hereat the Rose wept, and the dropping of her white tears down her red cheeks so well became her, that if ever sorrow was lovely, it then appeared so, which moved the beholders to much compassion, her tears speaking more than her tongue in her own behalf.

The Tulip stood up insolently, as rather challenging, than craving respect, from the Commonwealth of Flowers there present, and thus vaunted itself. “I am not solicitous what to return to the complaint of this Rose, whose own demerit hath justly outed itself of that respect which the mistaken world formerly bestowed upon it, and which men’s eyes, now opened, justly reassume, and confer on those who better deserve the same. To say that I am not more worthy than the Rose, what is it but to condemn mankind, and to arraign the most gentle and knowing among men, of ignorance for misplacing their affections? Surely, vegetables must not presume to mount above rational creatures, or to think that men are not the most competent judges of the worth and value of flowers. I confess there is yet no known sovereign virtue in my leaves, but it is injurious to infer that I have none, because as yet not taken notice of. If we should examine all by their intrinsic value, how many contemptible things in Nature would take the upper hand of those which are most valued? By this argument a flint stone would be better than a diamond, as containing that spark of fire therein, whence men with combustible matter may heat themselves in the coldest season. And clear it is that the loadstone (that grand pilot to the North, which findeth the way there in the darkest night) is to be preferred before the most orient pearl in the world. But they will generally be condemned for unwise who prize things according to this proportion. Seeing therefore in stones and minerals, that those things are not most valued which have most virtue, but that men according to their eyes and fancies raise the reputation thereof, let it not be interpreted to my disadvantage that I am not eminently known for any cordial operation; perchance the discovery hereof is reserved for the next age, to find out the latent virtue which lurketh in me. And this I am confident of, that Nature would never have hung out so gorgeous a sign, if some guest of quality had not been lodged therein. Surely my leaves had never been feathered with such variety of colors (which hath proclaimed me the King of all Lilies) had not some strange virtue, whereof the world is yet ignorant, been treasured up therein. As for the Rose, let her thank herself if she be sensible of any decay in esteem. I have not ambitiously affected superiority above her, nor have I fraudulently endeavored to supplant her; only I should have been wanting to myself, had I refused those favors from ladies which their importunity hath pressed upon me. And may the Rose remember how she, out of causeless jealousy, maketh all hands to be her enemies that gather her. What need is there that she should garrison herself within her prickles? Why must she set so many thorns to lie constant perdue4, that none must gather her, but such as suddenly surprise her? And do not all that crop her run the hazard of hurting their fingers? This is that which hath weaned the world from her love, whilst my smooth stalk exposing ladies to no such perils, hath made them by exchange to fix their removed affections upon me.”

At this stood up the Violet, and all prepared themselves with respectful attention, honoring the Violet for the age thereof, for, the Primrose alone excepted, it is Seignior to all the flowers in the year, and was highly regarded for the reputation of the experience thereof, that durst encounter the cold, and had passed many bitter blasts, whereby it had gained much wisdom, and had procured a venerable respect, both to his person and counsel. “The case” (saith the Violet) “is not of particular concernment, but extendeth itself to the life and liberty of all the society of flowers. The complaint of the Rose, we must all acknowledge to be just and true, and ever since I could remember, we have paid the Rose a just tribute of fealty, as our prime and principal. As for this Tulip, it hath not been in being in our garden above these sixty years. Our fathers never knew that such a flower would be, and perhaps our children may never know it ever was. What traveler brought it hither, I know not; they say it is of a Syrian extraction, but sure there it grew wild in the open fields, and is not beheld otherwise than a gentler sort of weed. But we may observe that all foreign vices are made virtues in this country: foreign drunkenness is Grecian Mirth (thence the proverb, The Merry Greek); foreign pride, Grecian good behavior; foreign lust, Grecian love; foreign laziness, Grecian harmlessness; foreign weeds, Grecian flowers. My judgment therefore is, that if we do not speedily eradicate this intruder, this Tulip in process of time will out us all of our just possessions, seeing no flower can pretend a clearer title than the Rose hath. And let us every one make the case to be his own.”

The gravity of the Violet so prevailed with the Senate of Flowers, that all concurred with his judgment herein: and such who had not the faculty of the fluentness of their tongues to express themselves in large orations thought that the well managing of a yea, or nay, spoke them as well wishing to the general good as the expressing themselves in large harangues. And these soberly concluded that the Tulip should be rooted out of the garden, and cast on the dunghill, as one who had justly invaded a place not due thereunto; and this accordingly was performed.5

Upon a time, the flowers assembled, and met in one general council, by the authority and summons of the Sovereign Rose, their undoubted natural King, who had taken the Lily for his royal spouse. The dew of heaven fell plentifully upon this happy conjunction, which made them to burgeon, to propagate and prosper exceedingly, in so much that the sweet fragrant odor which they did cast diffused itself over all the earth. To this meeting came the Violet, Gillyflower, the Rosemary, the Tulip, Lavender and Thyme; the Cinquefoil (though of a foreign growth) had an honorable rank amongst them, and as some observed, got too much credit with the royal Rose. The flowers of the field were admitted also to this great council: the Cowslip, the Honeysuckle, and Daisy had their delegates there present, to consult of a reformation of certain abuses which had taken rooting in the Commonwealth of Flowers, and being all under the Rose, they had privilege to speak all things with freedom. Complaints were made that much Cockle and Darnel, with other noxious herbs and tares1 were crept in amongst them, that the Poppy did pullulate2 too much, with divers other grievances. The success of this Senate, this great bed or posy of living flowers, was like to prove very prosperous, but that the herbs Briony, Wormwood, Wolf’s-bane, Rue, and Melampode3 (the emblems of Sedition, Malice, Fear, Ambition and Jealousy) thrust in amongst them, and much distempered their proceedings. These brought in with them the Burr,4 which exceedingly retarded and entangled all businesses; and it was thought that the Thistle was, too, meddling amongst them, which made matters grow to that acrimony and confusion as if the herb Morsus Diaboli5 had got in amongst them. Amongst many other good-morrows, they propounded to the Rose, that he should part with his prickles, and transmit his strength that way to be disposed of by them; the Royall Rose liked not this bold request of theirs, though couched in very smooth language, but answered: “I have hitherto condescended to everything you have propounded, much more than any of my predecessors ever did; but touching these prickles, which God and nature hath given me, and are inherent in me and my stock from the beginning, though they be but excrescences, yet you know they fortify and arm me, Armat Spina Rosam.6 And by them I protect you and your rights from violence, and what protection, I pray, can there be without strength? Therefore, I will by no means part with them to enfeeble my regal power, but will retain them still, and bequeath them to my posterity, which I would be loath to betray in this point. Nor do I much value what that silly infected animal, the King of Bees, tells me sometimes, when humming up and down my leaves; he would buzz this fond belief into me, how it added much to his majesty that nature gives him no sting, as all other bees have, because he should rely altogether upon the love and loyalty of his subjects. No. I will take warning by the Eagle, the King of Volatiles,7 and by the Lion, King of Quadrupedals, who (as the Prince of Moralists8 reports) when by fair insinuations the one had parted with his talons, the other with his teeth and ongles,9 wherein their might, and consequently their majesty consisted, grew afterwards contemptible to all creatures, and quite lost that natural allegiance and awe which was due unto the one from all birds, and to the other, from all beasts of field and forest.”

MORAL

Every natural born monarch hath an inherent inalienable strength in himself, which is the common militia of his kingdom; for, though the people’s love (which oftentimes is got by an Apple, and lost by a Pear) be a good citadel, yet there must be a concurrence of some visible settled force besides, which no earthly power may dispose of without his royal commands: and for him to transmit this strength to any other, is the only way to render him inglorious and despicable, both at home and abroad. And thus you have the spirit of these flowers, and moral of the fable.

Considering the incredible veneration which the best poets always had for gardens, fields, and woods, insomuch that in all other subjects they seemed to be banished from the Muse’s territories, I wondered what evil planet was so malicious to the breed of plants as to permit none of the inspired tribe to celebrate their beauty and admirable virtues. Certainly a copious field of matter, and what would yield them a plentiful return of fruit, where each particular, besides its pleasant history (the extent whereof everybody, or to speak more truly, nobody, can sufficiently understand), which contains the whole fabric of human frame, and a complete body of physic. From whence I am induced to believe, that those great men did not so much think them improper subjects of poetry, as discouraged by the greatness and almost inexplicable variety of the matter, and that they were unwilling to begin a work which they despaired of finishing. I, therefore, who am but a pygmy in learning, and scarce sufficient to express the virtues of the vile seaweed, attempt that work which those giants declined. Yet wherefore should I not attempt? Forasmuch as they disdained to take up with less than comprehending the whole, and I am proud of conquering some part. I shall think it reputation enough for me to have my name carved on the barks of some trees, or (what is reckoned a royal prerogative) inscribed upon a few flowers. You must not therefore expect to find so many herbs collected for this fardle,1 as sometimes go to the compounding of one single medicine. These two little books are therefore offered as small pills made up of sundry herbs, and gilt with a certain brightness of style; in the choice whereof I have not much labored, but took them as they came to hand, there being none amongst them which contained not plenty of juice, if it were drawn out according to art; none so insipid that would not afford matter for a whole book, if well extracted. The method which I judged most genuine and proper for this work, was not to press out their liquor crude in a simple enumeration, but as it were in a limbeck, by the gentle heat of poetry, to distill and extract their spirits. Nor have I chosen to put them together which had affinity in nature, that might create a disgust for want of variety; I rather connected those of the most different qualities, that their contrary colors, being mixed, might the better set off each other …

Flora

• At length the sporting Goddess thought it best
• (Though sure the humor went beyond a jest)
• A pleasant sort of trial to propose,
• And from among the plants a Queen to choose,
• Which should preside over the flowery race,
• Be a vice-goddess and supply her place.
• Each plant was to appear, and make its plea,
• To see which best deserved the dignity.

Introducing the Tulip1

• The Tulip next appeared, all over gay,
• But wanton, full of pride, and full of play;
• The world can’t show a dye but here has place,
• Nay, by new mixtures she can change her face.
• Purple and gold are both beneath her care;
• The richest needlework she loves to wear.
• Her only study is to please the eye,
• And to outshine the rest in finery;
• Oft, of a mode or color weary grown,
• By which their family had long been known,
• They’ll change their fashion straight, I know not how,
• And with much pain in other colors go;
• As if Medea’s furnace they had past
• (She without plants old Aeson ne’er new-cast);
• And though they know this change will mortal prove,
• They’ll venture yet—to change so much they love.
• Such love to beauty, such the thirst of praise,
• That welcome death before inglorious days!
• The cause by all was to the White assigned,
• Whether because the rarest of the kind,
• Or else because every petitioner
• In ancient times for office white2 did wear.

The Tulip3

• Somewhere in Horace, if I don’t forget
• (Flowers are no foes to poetry and wit;
• For us that tribe the like affection bear,
• And of all men the greatest florists are),
• We find a wealthy man
• Whose wardrobe did five thousand suits contain;
• He counted that a vast prodigious store,
• But I that number have twice told and more.
• Whate’er in spring the teeming Earth commands,
• What colors e’er the painted pride of birds,
• Or various lights the glistering gem affords,
• Cut by the artful lapidary’s hands;
• Whate’er the curtains of the heavens can show,
• Or light lays dyes upon the varnished bow,
• Robed in as many vests I shine,
• In everything bearing a princely mien.
• Pity I must the Lily and the Rose
• (And the last blushes at her threadbare clothes),
• Who think themselves so highly blest,
• Yet have but one poor tattered vest.
• These studious, unambitious things, in brief,
• Would fit extremely well a college-life,
• And when the God of Flowers a charter grants
• Admission shall be given to these plants;
• Kings should have plenty, and superfluous store,
• Whilst thriftiness becomes the poor.
• Hence Spring himself does chiefly me regard:
• Will any flower refuse to stand to his award?
• Me for whole months he does retain
• And keeps me by him all his reign;
• Caressed by Spring, the season of the year,
• Which before all to Love is dear.
• Besides: the God of Love himself’s my friend,
• Not for my face alone, but for another end.
• Loved by the God upon a private score,
• I know for what—but say no more.
• But why should I
• Become so silent or so shy?
• We flowers were by no peevish sire begot,
• Nor from that frigid, sullen tree did sprout,
• So famed in Ceres’ sacred rites;
• Nor in moroseness Flora’s self delights.
• My root, like oil in ancient games, prepares
• Lovers for battle or those softer wars;
• My quickening heat their sluggish veins inspires
• With vigorous and sprightly fires.
• Had but chaste Lucrece used the same,
• The night before bold Tarquin tried his flame,
• Upon record she ne’er a fool had been,
• But would have lived to reap the pleasure once again.
• The Goddess, conscious of the truth, a while
• Contained, but then was seen to blush and smile.

The Rose

• “And who can doubt my race,” says she,
• “Who on my face love’s tokens see?
• The God of Love is always soft, and always young,
• I am the same, then to his blood what wrong?
• My brother wingèd does appear;
• I leaves instead of wings do wear.
• He’s drawn with lighted torches in his hand;
• Upon my top bright flaming glories stand.
• The Rose has prickles, so has Love,
• Though these a little sharper prove;
• There’s nothing in the world above, or this below,
• But would for rosy-colored go.
• This is the dye that still does please
• Both mortal maids and heavenly goddesses.
• I am the standard by which beauty’s tried,
• The wish of Chloe, and immortal Juno’s pride.
• The bright Aurora, Queen of all the East,
• Proud of her rosy fingers, is confessed.
• When from the gates of Light the rising Day
• Breaks forth, his constant rounds to go,
• The winged Hours prepare the way,
• And rosy Clouds before him strew.
• The windows of the sky with roses shine;
• I am Day’s ornament as well as sign.
• And when the glorious pomp and tour is o’er,
• I greet it posting to the western shore.
• The God of Love, we must allow,
• Should tolerably beauty know.
• Yet never from those cheeks he goes,
• Where he can spy the blushing Rose.
• Thus the wise bee will never dwell
• (That, like the God of Love has wings;
• That, too, has honey; that has stings)
• On vulgar flowers that have no grateful smell.
• Tell me, blest Lover: what’s a kiss
• Without a rosy lip create the bliss?
• Nor do I only charming sweets dispense,
• But bear arms in my own and Man’s defense.
• I, without the patient’s pain,
• Man’s body, that Augean stable, clean.
• Not with a rough and pressing hand,
• As thunderstorms from clouds command,
• But as the dew and gentle flowers
• Dissolving light on herbs and flowers.
• Nor of a short and fading date
• Was I the less designed for rule and state;
• Let proud ambitious Floramour,*
  *the Amaranth
• Usurping on the God’s immortal name,
• Joy to be styled the Everlasting Flower.
• I ne’er knew yet that plant that near to Nestor came.
• We too too blest, too powerful should be grown,
• Which would but envy raise,
• If we could say our beauty were our own,
• Or boast long life and many days.
• But why should I complain of Fate
• For giving me so short a date?
• Since flowers, the emblems of mortality,
• All the same way and manner die.
• But the kind gods above forbid,
• That virtue e’er a grave should find,
• And though the fatal sisters cut my thread,
• My odor, like the soul, remains behind.
• To a dead lion a live worm’s preferred,
• Though once the king of all the savage herd.
• After my death I still excel
• The best of flowers that are alive and well.
• If that the name of dead will bear,
• From whose mere corpse does come
• (Like the dead bodies still surviving hale),
• So sweet a smell and strong perfume.
• Let ’em invent a thousand ways
• My mangled corpse to vex and squeeze,
• Though in a sweating limbeck pent,
• My ashes still preserve their scent.
• Like a dead monarch to the grave I come;
• Nature embalms me in my own perfume.”
• She spoke, a virgin blush came o’er her face,
• And an ambrosian scent flew round the place;
• But that which gave her words a finer grace,
• Not without some constraint she seemed to tell her praise.
• Her rivals trembled; for the Judge’s look
• A secret pleasure and much kindness spoke.
• The virgin did not for well-wishers lack;
• Her kind red squadrons stood behind her back.
• The yellow nearest stood, unfit for war,
• Nor did the spoils of cured diseases bear;
• The white was next, of great and good renown,
• A kind assistant to the eyesight known;
• The third, a mighty warrior, was the red,
• Which terribly her bloody banner spread;
• She binds the flux with her restringent arts,
• And stops the humor’s journey to those parts.
• She brings a present and a sure relief
• To head and heart, the fountains both of life;
• The fever’s fires by her are mildness taught,
• And the hagged man to sweet composure brought.
• By help of this, Jason of old, we read,
• Yoked and subdued the bulls of fiery breed;
• One dose to sleep the watchful dragon sent,
• By which no more but a high fever’s meant.
• Between this squadron and the white, we’re told,
• A long and grievous strife commenced of old;
• Strife is too soft a word for many years’
• Cruel, unnatural, and bloody wars;
• The famed Pharsalian fields twice dyed in blood,
• Ne’er of a nobler quarrel witness stood;
• The thirst of empire, ground of most our wars,
• Was that which solely did occasion theirs.
• For the red rose could not an equal bear,
• And the white would of no superior hear;
• The chief, by York and Lancaster upheld,
• With civil rage harassed the British field.
• What madness drew you Roses to engage,
• Kin against kin to spend your thorns and rage!
• Go, turn your arms, where you may triumph gain,
• And fame unsullied with a blushing stain.
• See the French Lily spoils and wastes your shore;
• Go conquer there, where you’ve twice beat before,
• Whilst the Scotch Thistle with audacious pride,
• Taking advantage, gores your bleeding side.
• Do Roses no more sense and prudence own
• Than to be fighting for domestic crown?
• From Venus you much of the mother bear;
• You both take pleasure in the God of War.
• I now begin to think the fable true,
• That Mars sprung from a flower, fulfilled by you.
• War ravages the field, and like the furious boar,
• That turns up all the garden’s beauteous store,
• O’erthrows the trees and hedges, and does wound
• With his ungentle tusk the bleeding ground;
• Roots up the saffron and the violet-bed,
• And feasts upon the gaudy Tulip’s head.
• You’d grieve to see a beauteous plat so soon
• Into confusion by a monster thrown.
• But oh, my Muse, oh whither does’t thou tow’r?
• This is a flight too high for thee to soar.
• The harmless strife of plants, their wanton play,
• Thy pipe perhaps may well enough essay;
• But for their wars, that is a theme so great,
• Rather for Lucan’s martial trumpet fit;
• To him that sung the Theban brothers’ death,*
  *Euripides
• To Maro* or some such, that task bequeath.
  *Virgil

The White Lily

• “Such as the lovely swan appears
• When rising from the Trent or Thame,
• And as aloft his plumes he rears,
• Despises the less beauteous stream:

• So when my joyful flow’r is born,
• And does its native glories show;
• Her clouded rival she does scorn;
• Th’are all but foils where Lilies grow.

• Soon as the infant comes to light
• With harmless milk alone ’tis fed;
• That from the innocence of white
• A gentle temper may be bred.

• The milky teat is first applied
• To fiercest creatures of the earth,
• But I can boast a greater pride:
• A goddess’ milk produced my birth.4

• When Juno in the days of yore
• Did with the great Alcides teem,
• Of milk the goddess had such store
• The nectar from her breast did stream.

• Whitening beyond the pow’r of art
• The pavement where it lay,
• Yet through the crevices some part
• Made shift to find its way.

• The Earth forthwith did pregnant prove
• With Lily flow’rs supplied,
• That scarce the Milky Way above
• With her in whiteness vied.

• Thus did the Race of Man arise,
• When sparks of heav’nly fire
• Breaking through crannies in the skies,
• Did Earth’s dull mass inspire.

• Happy those souls that can, like me,
• Their native white retain,
• Preserve their heav’nly purity,
• And wear no guilty stain.

• Peace in my habit comes arrayed,
• My dress her daughters wear;
• Hope and Joy in white are clad,
• In sable weeds, Despair.

• Thus Beauty, Truth and Chastity
• Attired we always find;
• These in no female meet, but me,
• From me are ne’er disjoined.

• Nature on many flow’rs beside
• Bestows a muddy white;
• On me she placed her greatest pride,
• All over-clad in light.”

• Thus Lily spoke, and needless did suppose,
• Because of form, her virtues to disclose.
• Then followed Lilies of a diff’rent hue,
• Who (’cause their beauty less than hers they knew)
• From birth and high descent their title drew.
• Of these the Martagon* chief claim did bring
  *purple lily
• (The noble flow’r that did from Ajax spring),
• But from the noblest hero’s veins to flow,
• Seemed less than from a goddess’ milk to grow.

Flora’s Verdict

• “Amongst the miracles of ancient Rome,
• When Cineas thither did as envoy come,
• Th’august and purpled Senate he admired,
• Viewed ’em and ‘if they all were kings?’ inquired.
• So I in all this num’rous throng must own
• I see no head but what deserves a crown.
• On what one flower can I bestow my voice,
• Where equal merits so distract my choice?
• Be ruled by me, the envious title waive,
• Let no one claim what all deserve to have.
• Consider how from Roman race we spring,
• Whose laws you know would ne’er permit a king.
• Can I who am a Roman deity,
• A haughty Tarquin in my garden see?
• E’en your own tribes, if I remember right,
• Rejoiced when they beheld the tyrant’s flight.
• With Gabine slaughter big, think how he slew
• The fairest flow’rs that in his platforms grew;
• Mankind and you, how he alike annoyed,
• And both with sportive cruelty destroyed.
• You who are Lords of Earth as well as they
• Should free-born Romans’ government display.
• Rest ever then a commonwealth of flow’rs,
• Compiled of people and of senators.
• This, I presume, the best for you and me,
• With sense of men and gods does best agree.
• Lily and Rose this year your consuls be;
• The Year shall so begin auspiciously.
• Four prætors to the seasons four, I make,
• The vernal prætorship thou, Tulip, take;
• Jove’s flow’r* the summer, Crocus autumn sway;
  *a Sweet William or pink
• Let winter war-like Hellebore obey.
• Honor’s the sole reward that can accrue,
• Though short your office, to your charge be true.
• Your life is short.” The Goddess ended here.
• The chosen with her verdict pleased appear;
• The rest with hope to speed another year.