Still must I on, for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Oceans foam, to sail Whereer the surge may sweep. ByronChilde Harold. Canto III. St. 2.
In the deep shadow of the porch A slender bind-weed springs, And climbs, like airy acrobat, The trellises, and swings And dances in the golden sun In fairy loops and rings. Susan CoolidgeBind-Weed.
Now tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now, and theyll oergrow the garden And choke the herbs for want of husbandry. Henry VI. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 31.
The summers flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die, But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity; For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. Sonnet XCIV.