Flowers

But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show, their substance still lives sweet.
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Romeo 
Lady, by yonder blessèd moon I vow,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops—
Juliet
O, swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
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Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.Simili
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