If There Is A Good Will, There

The Expedition Of My Violent Love Outrun The Pauser, Reason.

What's Gone, And What's Past Help, Should Be Past Grief.

And Be These Juggling Friends No More Believ'd, That Palter With Us In A Double Sense; That Keep The Word Of Promise To Our Ear And Break It To Our Hope.

Sir, The Year Growing Ancient, Not Yet On Summer's Death Nor On The Birth Of Trembling Winter, The Fairest Flowers O' Th' Season Are Our Carnations And Streaked Gillyvors, Which Some Call Nature's Bastards.

Such Antics Do Not Amount To A Man.