And not be grievèd sore?
FIRST.
But how fared thy garden-plot, sweetheart,
Whilst thou sat on the judgment-seat?
Who watered thy roses and trained thy vines,
And kept them from careless feet?
SECOND.
Nay, that is saddest of all to me,
That is the saddest of all.
My vines are trailing, my roses are parched.