How Now, Wit! Whither Wander You?

I Know A Bank Where The Wild Thyme Blows, Where Oxlips And The Nodding Violet Grows, Quite Over-canopied With Luscious Woodbine, With Sweet Musk-roses And With Eglantine.

Flower Of This Purple Dye, Hit With Cupid's Archery, Sink In Apple Of His Eye.

Anger Is Like A Full Hot Horse, Who Being Allowed His Way, Self-mettle Tires Him.

Thou Hast Her, France; Let Her Be Thine, For We Have No Such Daughter, Nor Shall Ever See That Face Of Hers Again. Therefore Be Gone Without Our Grace, Our Love, Our Benison.

It Were A Grief So Brief To Part With Thee. Farewell.