Speak me fair in death.
She's gone. I am abused, and my relief must be to loathe her.
I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade.
He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.