In Thy Foul Throat Thou Liest.

'twas Merry When You Wagered On Your Angling, When Your Diver Did Hang A Salt Fish On His Hook, Which He With Fervency Drew Up.

When We Our Betters See Bearing Our Woes, We Scarcely Think Our Miseries Our Foes.

If Ever (as That Ever May Be Near) You Meet In Some Fresh Cheek The Power Of Fancy, Then Shall You Know The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen, Arrows Make.

Methinks You Are My Glass, And Not My Brother: I See By You I Am A Sweet-faced Youth.

Thou Hast No Figures Nor No Fantasies Which Busy Care Draws In The Brains Of Men; Therefore Thou Sleep'st So Sound.