Away! Thou'rt Poison To My Blood.

To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old, For As You Were When First Your Eye I Eyed, Such Seems Your Beauty Still. Three Winters Cold Have From The Forests Shook Three Summers' Pride, Three Beauteous Springs To Yellow Autumn Turn'd In Process Of The Seasons Have I Seen, Three April Perfumes In Three Hot Junes Burn'd, Since First I Saw You Fresh, Which Yet Are Green.

If I Be Waspish, Best Beware My Sting.

'twas Merry When You Wagered On Your Angling, When Your Diver Did Hang A Salt Fish On His Hook, Which He With Fervency Drew Up.

Love Sought Is Good, But Given Unsought, Is Better.

His Neigh Is Like The Bidding Of A Monarch, And His Countenance Enforces Homage. He Is Indeed A Horse.