For I am going to the river’s side,
To fetch white lilies and blue daffodils,
To stick in Lod’wick’s bosom, where it bled,
And in mine own . . . .
‘We must run all away, yet all must die’
’Tis so;—I wrought it in a sampler.
’Twas heart in hand, and true love’s knots and words,
All true stitch, by my troth, the posy thus—
‘No flight, dear love, but death shall sever us.’
Neither did that! He lies here, does he not?”