True Love's The Gift Which God Has

I Am She, O Most Bucolical Juvenal, Under Whose Charge Are Placed The Milky Mothers Of The Herd.

Merrily, Merrily Goes The Bark On A Breeze From The Northward Free, So Shoots Through The Morning Sky The Lark, Or The Swan Through The Summer Sea.

Good Even, Good Fair Moon, Good Even To Thee. I Prithee, Dear Moon, Now Show To Me The Form And The Features, The Speech And Degree, Of The Man That True Lover Of Mine Shall Be.

Do Not Christians And Heathens, And Jews And Gentiles, And Poets And Philosophers, Unite In Allowing The Starry Influences?

The Rose Is Fairest When 't Is Budding New, And Hope Is Brightest When It Dawns From Fears. The Rose Is Sweetest Wash'd With Morning Dew, And Love Is Loveliest When Embalm'd In Tears.