Beware Of Entrance To A Quarrel.

Truth Will Come To Sight; Murder Cannot Be Hid Long.

What Power Is It Which Mounts My Love So High, That Makes Me See, And Cannot Feed Mine Eye

It Is The Bright Day That Brings Forth The Adder, And That Craves Wary Walking.

Thrice Is He Arm'd That Hath His Quarrel Just, And He But Naked, Though Lock'd Up In Steel, Whose Conscience With Injustice Is Corrupted.

His Steeds To Water At Those Springs On Chaliced Flowers That Lies; And Winking Mary-buds Begin To Ope Their Golden Eyes: With Every Thing That Pretty Is, My Lady Sweet, Arise.