Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To

O Gentle Son, Upon The Heat And Flame Of Thy Distemper, Sprinkle Cool Patience.

There Are Many Events In The Womb Of Time Which Will Be Delivered.

Love's Heralds Should Be Thoughts, Which Ten Times Faster Glide Than The Sun's Beams Driving Back Shadows Over Low'ring Hills. Therefore Do Nimble-pinioned Doves Draw Love, And Therefore Hath The Wind-swift Cupid Wings.

Verily, I Swear, It Is Better To Be Lowly Born, And Range With Humble Livers In Content, Than To Be Perked Up In A Glistering Grief, And Wear A Golden Sorrow.

Of All The Fair Resort Of Gentlemen That Every Day With Parle Encounter Me, In Thy Opinion Which Is Worthiest Love?