You Are An Alchemist; Make Gold Of

I Will Be Brief. Your Noble Son Is Mad.

Self-love, My Liege, Is Not So Vile A Sin, As Self-neglecting.

I Myself Am Best When Least In Company.

You Are Strangely Troublesome.

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.