Speak feelingly of sorrow; strew them down
About the steps: we mock death being trim.
Now here another. Ah! see, set it you:
I cannot reach. Have you not thought these roses
Weave a fit emblem—how they wait for noon
That comes to kill their promise, and the crown
Is but a mock one?
ATTENDANT.
’Tis a good custom, lady,
To honour thus the tombs of those we love.