What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!
An old black ram is tupping your white ewe
The coward dies a thousand deaths, the valiant, only once!
Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.
Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.