Men Are April When They Woo, December

I Can Give The Loser Leave To Chide.

Fit For The Mountains And The Barbarous Caves, Where Manners Ne'er Were Preached.

Of All Base Passions, Fear Is The Most Accursed.

I Could Be Well Content To Entertain The Lag-end Of My Life With Quiet Hours.

I Was Not Born Under A Rhyming Planet, Nor I Cannot Woo To In Festival Terms.