Like Will To Like, Each Creature Loves

Fair Daffodils, We Weep To See You Haste Away So Soon: As Yet The Early-rising Sun Has Not Attained His Noon.

Our Present Tears Here, Not Our Present Laughter Are But The Handsells Of Our Joys Hereafter.

In Vain Our Labours Are, Whatsoe'er They Be, Unless God Gives The Benediction.

But Ne'er The Rose Without The Thorn.

When Words We Want, Love Teacheth To Indite; And What We Blush To Speak, She Bids Us Write.