Curtis's Botanical Magazine — Volume 44

The Flowers, which grace their native beds,
Awhile put forth their blushing heads,
But, e'er the close of parting day,
They wither, shrink, and die away:
But these, which mimic skill hath made,
Nor scorched by suns, nor killed by shade,
Shall blush with less inconstant hue,
Which art at pleasure can renew. Lloyd.