No, Not Jove Himselfe, At One Time,

When The Tempter Me Pursueth With The Sins Of All My Youth, And Half Damns Me With Untruth, Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me!

I Sing Of Brooks, Of Blossoms, Birds, And Bowers: Of April, May, Or June, And July Flowers. I Sing Of Maypoles, Hock-carts, Wassails, Wakes, Of Bridegrooms, Brides, And Of The Bridal Cakes.

Thou Art My Life, My Love, My Heart, The Very Eyes Of Me: And Hast Command Of Every Part To Live And Die For Thee.

Give, If Thou Can, An Alms; If Not, A Sweet And Gentle Word.

Tears Are The Noble Language Of The Eye.