You Have Dancing Shoes With Nimble Soles.

Before Thee Stands This Fair Hesperides, With Golden Fruit, But Dangerous To Be Touched; For Death-like Dragons Here Affright Thee Hard.

Here Feel We But The Penalty Of Adam, The Seasons' Difference, As The Icy Fang And Churlish Chiding Of The Winter's Wind, Which, When It Bites And Blows Upon My Body, Even Till I Shrink With Cold, I Smile.

Tis But A Base, Ignoble Mind That Mounts No Higher Than A Bird Can Soar.

Tis Time To Fear When Tyrants Seem To Kiss.

What's To Come Is Still Unsure: In Delay There Lies No Plenty; Then Come Kiss Me, Sweet And Twenty, Youth's A Stuff Will Not Endure.