I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.

But jealous souls will not be answered so, They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they're jealous. 'Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.

Let me not live, after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger spirits.

And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And asleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me must be heard of, say, I taught thee.

It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, and that craves wary walking.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost.