I Am Declined Into The Vale Of

Thy Words, I Grant Are Bigger, For I Wear Not, My Dagger In My Mouth.

Orpheus With His Lute Made Trees, And The Mountain Tops That Freeze, Bow Themselves, When He Did Sing; To His Music, Plants And Flowers Ever Sprung; As Sun And Showers There Had Made A Lasting Spring. Every Thing That Heard Him Play, Even The Billows Of The Sea, Hung Their Heads, And Then Lay By. In Sweet Music Is Such Art, Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

As Merry As The Day Is Long.

Can It Be Chat Modesty May More Betray Our Sense Than Woman's Lightness?

O Death, Made Proud With Pure And Princely Beauty!