Octavia.

Hang there, sweet roses, while your blooms are wet, Hang there and weep unblamed; ay, weep one hour, While yet your tender, fleshly hues remember His fair young prime; then wither, droop, and die, And with your changèd tissues paint my grief. Nay, let those old wreaths lie, the shrivelled petals Speak feelingly of sorrow; strew them down About the steps: we mock death being trim. Now here another. Ah! see, set it you: I cannot reach. Have you not thought these roses Weave a fit emblem—how they wait for noon That comes to kill their promise, and the crown Is but a mock one?