Nymph, In Thy Orisons Be All My

How Wayward Is This Foolish Love That, Like A Testy Babe, Will Scratch The Nurse And Presently, All Humble, Kiss The Rod.

A Little Fire Is Quickly Trodden Out, Which, Being Suffer'd, Rivers Cannot Quench.

Good Fortune Then! To Make Me Blest Or Cursed'st Among Men.

Instead Of Weeping When A Tragedy Occurs In A Songbird's Life, It Sings Away Its Grief. I Believe We Could Well Follow The Pattern Of Our Feathered Friends.

Upon His Royal Face There Is No Note How Dread An Army Hath Enrounded Him.