We Cannot All Be Masters.

Flower Of This Purple Dye, Hit With Cupid's Archery, Sink In Apple Of His Eye.

Who Could Refrain That Had A Heart To Love And In That Heart Courage To Make Love Known?

I Can Again Thy Former Light Restore, Should I Repent Me: But Once Put Out Thy Light, Thou Cunning'st Pattern Of Excelling Nature, I Know Not Where Is That Promethean Heat That Can Thy Light Relume.

Thou Art The Best O' The Cut-throats

Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth Of Anger Constant Spirit, Not Swerving With The Blood, Garnish'd And Deck'd In Modest Compliment, Not Working With The Eye Without The Ear, And But In Purged Judgement Trusting Neither? Such And So Finely Bolted Didst Thou Seem.