"O! yes, Sophrosyne, see here
The sweetest flower of all the year;
But 'tis not mixed among the rest,
I ever wear it in my breast."
So saying, show'd the Lily fair,
The Valley's pride, was shelter'd there;
Then Innocence her emblem knew,
And own'd how strong the likeness grew;
And own'd, too, that no other flower
That shows its face at any hour,
Could e'er so tenderly declare
'Twas half so spotless, pure, and fair.