224 
SHAKESPEARE’S GARDEN 
O heat, dry up my brains ! tears seven times salt, 
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye ! 
By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight, 
Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May ! 
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! 
O heavens ! is ’t possible, a young maid’s wits 
Should be as mortal as an old man’s life ? 
Nature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine, 
It sends some precious instance of itself 
After the thing it loves. 
IV. v. 155. 
Opli. There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, 
love, remember: and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts. 
Laer. A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance 
fitted. 
Oph. There’s fennel for you, and columbines : there’s rue 
for you; and here’s some for me : we may call it herb-grace 
o’ Sundays: O, you must wear your rue with a difference. 
There’s a daisy: I would give you some violets, but they 
withered all when my father died. 
IV. v. 175. 
And will he not come again ? 
And will he not come again ? 
No, no, he is dead: 
Go to thy death-bed : 
He never will come again. 
His beard was as white as snow, 
All flaxen was his poll: 
He is gone, he is gone, 
And we cast away moan : 
God ha’ mercy on his soul ! 
IV. v. 190. 
Queen. There is a willow grows aslant a brook, 
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream ; 
There with fantastic garlands did she come 
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples 
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, 
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them: 
There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds 
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; 
When down her weedy trophies and herself 
Fell in the weeping brook. 
IV. vii. 167. 
