Our Present Tears Here, Not Our Present

Feed Him Ye Must, Whose Food Fills You. And That This Pleasure Is Like Raine, Not Sent Ye For To Drowne Your Paine, But For To Make It Spring Againe.

When Words We Want, Love Teacheth To Indite; And What We Blush To Speak, She Bids Us Write.

The Person Lives Twice Who Lives The First Life Well

For Pitty, Sir, Find Out That Bee Which Bore My Love Away I'le Seek Him In Your Bonnet Brave, I'le Seek Him In Your Eyes.

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.