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 Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.
7 He is not the flower of courtesy, but I'll warrant him as gentle as a lamb.
8 Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
9 He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave, And bid me stand aloof, and so I did.
10 This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
11 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.
12 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.
13 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.