I Drink To The General Joy O’

He Wears His Faith But As The Fashion Of His Hat.

Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair, Playing In The Wanton Air: Through The Velvet Leaves The Wind, All Unseen Can Passage Find; That The Lover, Sick To Death, Wish'd Himself The Heaven's Breath.

By Heaven, I Do Love: And It Hath Taught Me To Rhyme, And To Be Mekancholy.

Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A Life, Whose Very Comfort Is Still A Dying Horror

My Master Hath Been An Honorable Gentleman; Tricks He Hath Had In Him Which Gentlemen Have.