Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples;
There, on the pendent boughs her cornet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies, and herself,
Fell in the weeping brook.
Laer. I forbid my tears: But yet
It is our trick: nature her custom holds,
Let shame say what it will: when these are gone,
The woman will be out.
Adieu, my lord:
I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,
But that this folly drowns it.
[Exeunt. C.]
