He Doth Nothing But Talk Of His

Praise Us As We Are Tasted, Allow Us As We Prove.

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

Men Are April When They Woo, December When They Wed. Maids Are May When They Are Maids, But The Sky Changes When They Are Wives.

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presagers Of My Speaking Breast, Who Plead For Love, And Look For Recompense, More Than That Tongue That More Hath More Expressed.

Give Me A Bowl Of Wine. I Have Not That Alacrity Of Spirit Nor Cheer Of Mind That I Was Wont To Have.