The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,
I must up-fill this [osier cage] of ours
With baleful weeds and [precious-juiced flowers].
[The earth] that's nature's mother is her tomb;
What is her burying grave that is her womb,
And from her womb children of divers kind
We sucking on her natural bosom find,
Many for many virtues excellent,
None but for some, and yet all different.
O, [mickle] is the powerful grace that lies