There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.

His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep, more than did laugh at it.

When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.

We will draw the curtain and show you the picture.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade.

No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here.

My cousin's a fool, and thou art another.