A Countenance More In Sorrow Than In

I Have Unclasp'd To Thee The Book Even Of My Secret Soul.

Virtue And Genuine Graces In Themselves Speak What No Words Can Utter.

When Daisies Pied And Violets Blue And Lady-smocks All Silver-white And Cuckoo-buds Of Yellow Hue Do Paint The Meadows With Delight, The Cuckoo Then, On Every Tree, Mocks Married Men; For Thus Sings He, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, Cuckoo; O, Word Of Fear, Unpleasing To A Married Ear.

There Is Nothing Either Good Or Bad But Thinking Makes It So.

Then Others For Breath Of Words Respect, Me For My Dumb Thoughts, Speaking In Effect.