And so thou'rt treasured by each maid,
Like precious stones or gold.
Thy wreath adorns the fairest face,
But still thou'rt not the flower whose grace
I honour here in silence.
THE LILY.
The rose is wont with pride to swell,
And ever seeks to rise;
But gentle sweethearts love full well
The lily's charms to prize.
The heart that fills a bosom true,
That is, like me, unsullied, too,
My merit values duly.
COUNT.
In truth, I hope myself unstained,
And free from grievous crime;
Yet I am here a prisoner chained,
And pass in grief my time.
To me thou art an image sure
Of many a maiden, mild and pure,
And yet I know a dearer.
THE PINK.
That must be me, the pink, who scent
The warder's garden here.
Or wherefore is he so intent
My charms with care to rear?
My petals stand in beauteous ring,
Sweet incense all around I fling,
And boast a thousand colours.
