noon
And so our cousin became a curate . `` Surely , '' wrote he , `` you and Prue will be glad to hear it ; and my friend Titbottom can no longer boast that he is more useful in the world than I. Dear old George Herbert has already said what I would say to you , and here it is . '' ` I made a posy , while the day ran by ; Here will I smell my remnant out , and tie My life within this band . But time did beckon to the flowers , and they My noon most cunningly did steal away , And wither 'd in my hand . '' ` My hand was next to them , and then my heart ; I took , without more thinking , in good part , Time 's gentle admonition ; Which did so sweetly death 's sad taste convey , Making my mind to smell my fatal day , Yet sugaring the suspicion . '' ` Farewell , dear flowers , sweetly your time ye spent , Fit , while ye lived , for smell or ornament , And after death for cures ; I follow straight without complaints or grief , Since if my scent be good , I care not if It be as short as yours . ' '' This is our only relation ; and do you wonder that , whether our days are dark or bright , we naturally speak of our cousin the curate ?