With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage.

Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.

Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.

Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant can trickle when she wounds!

For she had eyes and chose me.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.

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.