I...kisss The Tender Inward Of Thy Hand.

What Cannot Be Saved When Fate Takes, Patience Her Injury A Mockery Makes

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.

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

Look, What Envious Streaks Do Lace The Severing Clouds In Yonder East! Night's Candles Are Burnt Out, And Jocund Day Stands Tip-toe On The Misty Mountain-tops.

To Business That We Love We Rise Betime, And Go To't With Delight.