Though Music Oft Hath Such A Charm

I, Measuring His Affections By My Own, Which Then Most Sought Where Most Might Not Be Found, Being One Too Many By My Weary Self, Pursued My Humor Not Pursuing His, And Gladly Shunned Who Gladly Fled From Me.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still.

Lord, Lord, How Subject We Old Men Are To This Vice Of Lying!

Love's Not Time's Fool, Though Rosy Lips And Cheeks Within His Bending Sickle's Compass Come; Love Alters Not With His Brief Hours And Weeks, But Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom. If This Be Error And Upon Me Prov'd, I Never Writ, Nor No Man Ever Lov'd.

Virtue Preserv'd From Fell Destruction's Blast, Led On By Heaven, And Crown'd With Joy At Last.