Xviii

But, wiser, we keep off, nor tempt the acrid juice; Discreet we peer and praise, put rich things to right use. No flavorous venomed bell,--the rose it is, I wot, Only the rose, we pluck and place, unwronged a jot, No worse for homage done by every devotee, I' the proper loyal throne, on breast where rose should be. Or if the simpler sweets we have to choose among, Would taste between our teeth, and give its toy the tongue,-- O gorgeous poison-plague, on thee no hearts are set! We gather daisy meek, or maiden violet: I think it is Elvire we love, and not Fifine.