Gardens

But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show, their substance still lives sweet.
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If music be the food of love, play on.
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.
That strain again! It had a dying fall.
O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor. Enough; no more.

O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
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O, that this too too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!Epizeuxis & Metaphor
Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter!Metonymy O God, God,
How Synonymiaweary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
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Though other things grow fair against the sun,
Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe.
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The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,Personification
Check’ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reelsSimile
From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels.Allusion

The earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb;
What is her burying grave,
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Widow
Gentle madam,
You never had a servant to whose trust
Your business was more welcome.

But with the word the time will bring on summer,
When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns,
And be as sweet as sharp.

Helen
Nor you, mistress,
Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labor
To recompense your love.
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