With fairest flowers 
Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, 
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, whom not to slander, 
Out-sweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddock would, 
With charitable bill, — O bill, sore-shaming 
Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie 
Without a monument! — bring thee all this; 
Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, 
To winter-ground thy corse.