The plant-lore & garden-craft of Shakespeare - LightNovelsOnl.com
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(41) _Oth.e.l.lo._
Thou young and Rose-lipp'd cherubim.
_Oth.e.l.lo_, act iv, sc. 2 (63).
(42)
Roses, their sharp spines being gone, Not royall in their smells alone But in their hue.
_Two n.o.ble Kinsmen_, Introd. song.
(43) _Emilia._
Of all flowres Methinks a Rose is best.
_Woman._
Why, gentle madam?
_Emilia._
It is the very Embleme of a maide.
For when the west wind courts her gently, How modestly she blows, and paints the Sun With her chaste blushes? When the north winds neere her, Rude and impatient, then, like Chast.i.ty, Shee locks her beauties in her bud againe, And leaves him to base Briers.
_Ibid._, act ii, sc. 2 (160).
(44) _Wooer._
With cherry lips and cheekes of Damaske Roses.
_Ibid._, act iv, sc. 2 (95).
(45) _See_ NETTLES, No. 13.
(46)
Roses have thorns and silver fountains mud, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
_Sonnet_ x.x.xv.
(47)
The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour that doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the Roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses; But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade; Die to themselves--sweet Roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.
_Sonnet_ liv.
(48)
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek Roses of shadow, since his Rose is true?
_Ibid._ lxvii.
(49)
Shame, like a canker in the fragrant Rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name.
_Ibid._ xcv.
(50)
Nor did I wonder at the Lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion of the Rose.
_Ibid._ xcviii.
(51)
The Roses fearfully in thorns did stand, One blus.h.i.+ng shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath.
_Ibid._ xcix.
(52)
I have seen Roses damask'd, red and white, But no such Roses see I in her cheeks.
_Ibid._ cx.x.x.
(53)
More white and red than dove and Roses are.
_Venus and Adonis_ (10).
(54)
What though the Rose has p.r.i.c.kles? yet 'tis plucked.
