With fairest flowers,/ Whilst summer lasts

With fairest flowers
While summer lasts and I live here, Fidele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor
The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins, no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddock would,
With charitable bill,--O bill! sore-shaming
Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie
Without a monument,--bring thee all this;
Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none,
To winter-ground thy corse.
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