LXXV.

There is a flower called "Love in Idleness,"[720] For which see Shakespeare's ever-blooming garden;-- I will not make his great description less, And beg his British godship's humble pardon, If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress, I touch a single leaf where he is warden;-- But, though the flower is different, with the French Or Swiss Rousseau--cry _"Voilà la Pervenche!"_[721]