Herblet

The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ the night Are strewings fitt’st for graves. Upon their faces. You were as flowers, now wither’d: even so These herblets shall, which we upon you strew.

1822, Henry Francis Cary (translator), Ode, Book 4, No. 18, by Pierre de Ronsard, The London Magazine, Volume 5, June 1822, p. 510, God shield ye, bright embroider’d train Of butterflies, that, on the plain, Of each sweet herblet sip;

[…] she dined off the honey from the flowers, and drank from the dew that every morning spangled the leaves and herblets around her.