The Soul Of This Man Is His

Thou Shouldst Not Have Been Old Till Thou Hadst Been Wise.

Now Stand You On The Top Of Happy Hours, And Many Maiden Gardens Yet Unset, With Virtuous Wish Would Bear You Living Flowers, Much Liker Than Your Painted Counterfeit: So Should The Lines Of Life That Life Repair Which This, Time's Pencil, Or My Pupil Pen Neither In Inward Worth Nor Outward Fair Can Make You Live Your Self In Eyes Of Men.

Ingrateful Man With Liquorish Draughts, And Morsels Unctuous, Greases His Pure Mind That From It All Consideration Slips.

Grief Fills The Room Up Of My Absent Child, Lies In His Bed, Walks Up And Down With Me, Puts On His Pretty Look, Repeats His Words, Remembers Me Of His Gracious Parts, Stuffs Out His Vacant Garments With His Form

Come, Woo Me, Woo Me, For Now I Am In A Holiday Humor, And Like Enough To Consent.