Shakespeare's Flowers

Like the lily,
That once was mistress of the field and flourish'd,
I'll hang my head and perish.
Henry VIII (3.1.168-70)

What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.
Romeo and Juliet (2.2.45-7)

What, no more ceremony? See, my women!
Against the blown rose may they stop their nose
That kneel'd unto the buds.
Antony and Cleopatra (3.13.44-6)

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks...
Sonnet 130

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
Sonnet 35

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
Sonnet 54

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Sonnet 98

The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.
Sonnet 99

At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth;
But like of each thing that in season grows.
Love's Labours Lost (1.1)

When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
Love's Labours Lost (5.2.900-4)

Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owedst yesterday.
Othello (3.3.368-71)

His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise.
Cymbeline (2.3.20-6)

The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?
Ha!
Not she: nor doth she tempt: but it is I
That, lying by the violet in the sun,
Do as the carrion does, not as the flower,
Corrupt with virtuous season.
Measure for Measure (2.2.186-91)