Put On The Dauntless Spirit Of Resolution.

The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention Like Deep Harmony.

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

Dost Thou Think, Because Thou Art Virtuous, There Shall Be No More Cakes And Ale?

Say, Thou Art Mine; And Ever, My Love, As It Begins, Shall So Persevere

Can It Be That Modesty May More Betray Our Sense Than Woman's Lightness? Having Waste Ground Enough, Shall We Desire To Raze The Sanctuary And Pitch Our Evils There?