So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.

I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.

Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun, and with him rise weeping.

Is she kind as she is fair?