He Is Winding The Watch Of His

Hal, If I Tell Thee A Lie, Spit In My Face, Call Me Horse.

Chewing The Food Of Sweet And Bitter Fancy.

What My Tongue Dares Not That My Heart Shall Say

You'd Be So Lean, That Blast Of January Would Blow You Through And Through. Now, My Fair'st Friend, I Would I Had Some Flowers O' The Spring That Might Become Your Time Of Day.

The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.