To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.
Presume not that I am the thing I was.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Tears water our growth.
When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.
The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.
O, my lord, You said that idle weeds are fast in growth: The prince my brother hath outgrown me far.
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