I Drink To The General Joy O’

Whereto Serves Mercy But To Confront The Visage Of Offense?

His Steeds To Water At Those Springs On Chaliced Flowers That Lies; And Winking Mary-buds Begin To Ope Their Golden Eyes: With Every Thing That Pretty Is, My Lady Sweet, Arise.

Mirth Cannot Move A Soul In Agony.

Haste Is Needful In A Desperate Case.

Never Durst Poet Touch A Pen To Write Until His Ink Were Temper'd With Love's Sighs.