1 Why, then is my pump well flowered.
2 Verona's summer hath not such a flower.
3 Nay, he's a flower, in faith a very flower.
4 Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.
5 Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.
6 There she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him.
7 Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.
8 He is not the flower of courtesy, but I'll warrant him as gentle as a lamb.
9 Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
10 He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave, And bid me stand aloof, and so I did.
11 This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
12 Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, The day to cheer, and night's dank dew to dry, I must upfill this osier cage of ours With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.
13 Within the infant rind of this weak flower Poison hath residence, and medicine power: For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
14 All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral: Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse, And all things change them to the contrary.