There’s fennel for you, and columbines:—there’s rue for you; and here’s some for me:—we may call it herb 190 of grace o’ Sundays:—O, you must wear your rue with a difference.—There’s a daisy:—I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died:—they say he made a good end,— [Sings.] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy,—
