On Violet’s Wafers, Sent Me When I Was Ill

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Fine-tissued as her finger-tips, and white
      As all her thoughts; in shape like shields of prize,
      As if before young Violet’s dreaming eyes
Still blazed the two great Theban bucklers bright
That swayed the random of that furious fight
      Where Palamon and Arcite made assize
      For Emily; fresh, crisp as her replies,
That, not with sting, but pith, do oft invite
      More trial of the tongue; simple, like her,
Well fitting lowlihood, yet fine as well,
      —The queen’s no finer; rich (though gossamer)
In help to him they came to, which may tell
            How rich that him she’ll come to; thus men see,
            Like Violet’s self e’en Violet’s wafers be.