Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.
This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
A very scurvy fellow.