With fairest flowers

With fairest flowers

Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele,

I'll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack

The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor

The azured harebell, like thy veins, no, nor

The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,

Out-sweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddock would,

With charitable bill, — O bill, sore-shaming

Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie

Without a monument! — bring thee all this;

Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none,

To winter-ground thy corse.