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]