He That Is Giddy Thinks The World

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.

The Gaudy, Blabbing, And Remorseful Day Is Crept Into The Bosom Of The Sea.

Then Let Thy Love Be Younger Than Thyself, Or Thy Affection Cannot Hold The Bent.

Foul Whisp'rings Are Abroad.

There's Rosemary And Rue. These Keep Seeming And Savor All The Winter Long. Grace And Remembrance Be To You.