Page:The Floral Fortune-teller.djvu/42

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34
THE FLORAL

LOCUST.


 

Beauty has corrupted thy heart. That little face! shame on thee! In the morning its splendor dies, its rose sheds its leaves. Swallows that love in the spring-time fly when the north-wind blows. Thine autumn will frighten away thy lovers.

Schiller.



A very, very—peacock!

Shakspeare.