I Long To Hear The Story Of

My Prophecy Is But Half His Journey Yet, For Yonder Walls, That Pertly Front Your Town, Yon Towers, Whose Wanton Tops Do Buss The Clouds, Must Kiss Their Own Feet.

How Is It That The Clouds Still Hang On You?

There Is No Vice So Simple But Assumes Some Mark Of Virtue On His Outward Parts.

I Had Rather Be A Dog, And Bay The Moon, Than Such A Roman.

Thus Weary Of The World, Away She Hies, And Yokes Her Silver Doves; By Whose Swift Aid Their Mistress Mounted Through The Empty Skies In Her Light Chariot Quickly Is Convey'd; Holding Their Course To Paphos, Where Their Queen Means To Immure Herself And Not Be Seen.