And I will make thee beds of roses / And a thousand fragrant posies.

Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars

And he repents in thorns that sleeps in beds of roses.

The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows. . . .

The air soft as that of Seville in April, and so fragrant that it was delicious to breathe it.

Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.