There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

Her clothes spread wide, / And mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up, / Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes, / As one incapable of her own distress, / Or like a creature native and indued / Unto that element.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, / That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream. / There with fantastic garlands did she make / 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.

Sweets to the sweet. Farewell.

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?

He is dead and gone, lady, / He is dead and gone, / At his head a grass green turf, / At his heels a stone.