When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo; O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.

Within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court.

Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil

You may my Glories and my State depose, But not my Griefes; still am I King of those.

Make passionate my sense of hearing.

Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.

The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.