He is winding the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet
Then happy I that love and am beloved, where I may not remove nor be removed.
I have not slept one wink.
Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.