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 azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweeten'd...
Cymbeline. Titus Andronicus. Pericles. King Lear - Page 95
by William Shakespeare - 1811
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