If gardens be thy food of love,
Then we love thee more,
Clydesdale on Te puke,
Something Brown for sure.

Thou hast not seen botanical,
If you view not Brown’s garden,
Perchance the perfect place,
A challenge, I beg thee pardon.

How beauteous, finite care,
Doth it reason perfection?
Green-eyed jealousy! O love,
Shakespeare’s perfect section.