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.