The weeds of Shakespeare need no remark; they were the same as ours; and, in spite of our improved cultivation, our fields and gardens are probably as full of weeds as they were three centuries ago. B. BLIGHTS, FROSTS, ETC. (1) _York._ Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud, And caterpillars eat my leaves away. _2nd Henry VI_, act iii, sc. 1 (89). (2) _Montague._ But he, his own affection's counsellor, Is to himself--I will not say, how true-- But to himself so sweet and close, So far from sounding and discovery, As is the bud bit with an envious worm, Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. _Romeo and Juliet_, act i, sc. 1 (153). (3) _Imogene._ Comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing. _Cymbeline_, act i, sc. 3 (35). (4) _Bardolph._ A cause on foot Lives so in hope as in an early spring We see the appearing buds--which to prove fruit, Hope gives not so much warrant as despair That frost will bite them. _2nd Henry IV_, act i, sc. 3 (37). (5) _Violet._ She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek. _Twelfth Night_, act ii, sc. 4 (113). (6) _Proteus._ Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all. _Valentine._ And writers say as the most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit Is turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime And all the fair effects of future hopes. _Two Gentlemen of Verona_, act i, sc. 1 (42). (7) _Capulet._ Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of the field. _Romeo and Juliet_, act iv, sc. 5 (28). (8) _Lysimachus._ O sir, a courtesy Which if we should deny, the most just gods For every graff would send a caterpillar, And so afflict our province. _Pericles_, act v, sc. 1 (58). (9) _Wolsey._ This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. _Henry VIII_, act iii, sc. 2 (352). (10) _Saturninus._