Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.

All dark and comfortless.

The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven.

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might. Whoever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight.

You lack the season of all natures, sleep.

I will speak daggers to her, but use none.