With fairest flowers

I’ll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack

The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose;

Nor the azured harebell, like thy veins;

No, nor the leaf of eglantine,

Which, not to slander it, outsweeten’d

Not thy breath.

“These to renew with more than annual care,

That wakeful love with pensive step will go;

The hand that lifts the dibble shakes with fear,

Lest haply it disturb the friend below.

Vain fear! yet who that boasts a heart to feel,

An eye to pity, would that fear reprove?

They only who are cursed with breasts of steel

Can mock the foibles of surviving love.”