Golden Lads And Girls All Must As

Where The Bee Sucks, There Suck I In The Cow-slip's Bell I Lie There I Couch When Owls Do Cry

My Desolation Does Begin To Make A Better Life.

Let Fancy Still In My Sense In Lethe Steep; If It Be Thus To Dream, Still Let Me Sleep!

I Pray You, In Your Letters, When You Shall These Unlucky Deeds Relate, Speak Of Me As I Am; Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice. Then Must You Speak Of One That Loved Not Wisely But Too Well; Of One Not Easily Jealous, But Being Wrought, Perplexed In The Extreme. . .

But Indeed An Old Religious Uncle Of Mine Taught Me To Speak, Who Was In His Youth An Inland Man; One That Knew Courtship Too Well, For There He Fell In Love. I Have Heard Him Read Many Lectures Against It; And I Thank God I Am Not A Woman, To Be Touched With So Many Giddy Offenses As He Hath Generally Taxed Their Whole Sex Withal.