I Am Not Merry, But I Do

The Seasons Change Their Manners, As The Year Had Found Some Months Asleep And Leapt Them Over.

Security Is The Chief Enemy Of Mortals.

But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In The Most Humorous Sadness.

Captain Of Our Fairy Band, Helena Is Here At Hand, And The Youth, Mistook By Me, Pleading For A Lover's Fee. Shall We Their Fond Pageant See? Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

I Will Be Correspondent To Command, And Do My Spiriting Gently.