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. 1840 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? _ATTENDANT._ ’Tis a good custom, lady, To honour thus the tombs of those we love. _Oct._ Custom! Is this a custom? Then I think I wrong my sorrow in such common shows. _Att._ Nay, it doth ease affliction to be busy; And grief, that cannot reckon with a mystery, 1850 Is comforted by trifles. _Oct._ Why, thou’rt wrong; It brings no comfort. _Att._ And ’tis kindly done To hide the fresh-cut stone. Death is hard featured In a new-built tomb. _Oct._ O, hold thy peace! I see Thou canst not be my comforter. Alas, I blame thee not. But yet, whate’er be said, Think not our gracious deed finds its account In the honour done: the wreaths I bring were woven More for myself; the tears I shed, I shed The more abundantly that they are crimes 1860 In the sight of him that slew him. _Att._ Speak not so, Lady; thou’rt o’er-distraught. _Oct._ What would’st thou have me? Knowing my sorrow thou should’st rather wonder, And think it well that I speak sense at all. _Att._ Let not such passion kill thy courage, lady; The greatest die. There stands the tomb of Julius, Whose mighty march was no less foully stayed At noon of power: there is Augustus’ tomb, Wherein so many lie... _Oct._ Why, what are they To me? Is’t not my brother that is dead? 1870 Whose life was mine, as needful to my day As is the sun; as natural, old a want To very life as is the bathing air That my blood battens on. Take these away And give him back; it then were likelier I should not gasp, fret, pale, nor starve, nor pine. He is gone! O miserably, suddenly, For ever; alas! alas!—See, who comes hither? _Att._ ’Tis Agrippina, lady; and she carries Wreaths such as ours. 1880 _Oct._ Let us begone in haste. _Att._ Alas! she hath seen us, lady: ’tis too late. _Oct._ I’ll but salute her. I pray you all keep back, Nor speak with her attendants.