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Why this flower is now call'd so, List, sweet maids, and you shall know. Understand, this firstling was Once a brisk and bonnie lass, Kept as close as Danaë was: Who a sprightly springall lov'd, And to have it fully prov'd, Up she got upon a wall, Tempting down to slide withal: But the silken twist untied, So she fell, and, bruis'd, she died. Love, in pity of the deed, And her loving-luckless speed, Turn'd her to this plant we call Now the flower of the wall.

Tempting, trying.

These fresh beauties (we can prove) Once were virgins sick of love. Turn'd to flowers,—still in some Colours go and colours come.

You say I love not, 'cause I do not play Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.