The plant-lore & garden-craft of Shakespeare Part 105

(5) _K. Henry._

I think the king is but a man, as I am; the Violet smells to him as it doth to me.

_Henry V_, act iv, sc. 1 (105).

(6) _Laertes._

A Violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent; sweet, not lasting.

The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

_Hamlet_, act i, sc. 3 (7).

(7) _Ophelia._

I would give you some Violets, but they withered all when my father died.

_Ibid._, act iv, sc. 5 (184).

(8) _Laertes._

Lay her i' the earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May Violets spring!

_Ibid._, act v, sc. 1 (261).

(9) _Belarius._

They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the Violet, Not wagging his sweet head.

_Cymbeline_, act iv, sc. 2 (171).

(10) _Duke._

That strain again! It had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound, That breathes upon a bank of Violets, Stealing and giving odour!

_Twelfth Night_, act i, sc. 1 (4).

(11) _Song of Spring._

When Daisies pied, and Violets blue, &c.

_Love's Labour's Lost_, act v, sc. 2 (904).

(_See_ CUCKOO-BUDS.)

(12) _Perdita._

Violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath.

_Winter's Tale_, act iv, sc. 4 (120).

(13) _d.u.c.h.ess._

Welcome, my son; Who are the Violets now, That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?

_Richard II_, act v, sc. 2 (46).

(14) _Marina._

The yellows, blues, The purple Violets and Marigolds, Shall as a carpet hang upon thy grave While summer-days do last.

_Pericles_, act iv, sc. 1 (16).

(15)

These blue-veined Violets whereon we lean Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

_Venus and Adonis_ (125).

(16)

Who when he lived, his breath and beauty set Gloss on the Rose, smell to the Violet.

_Ibid._ (936).

(17)

When I behold the Violet past prime, And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white,

Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake And die as fast as they see others grow.

_Sonnet_ xii.

(18)

The forward Violet thus did I chide: "Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells In my love's veins thou hast too grossly died."