He Makes A July's Day Short As

Have Patience, And Endure

I Will Be Brief. Your Noble Son Is Mad.

All Lovers Swear More Performance Than They Are Able, And Yet Reserve An Ability That They Never Perform; Vowing More Than The Perfection Of Ten, And Discharging Less Than The Tenth Part Of One.

So May He Rest, His Faults Lie Gently On Him!

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.