Love Is Like A Child, That Longs

You'd Be So Lean, That Blast Of January Would Blow You Through And Through. Now, My Fair'st Friend, I Would I Had Some Flowers O' The Spring That Might Become Your Time Of Day.

For God's Sake, Let Us Sit Upon The Ground And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings.

He That Keeps Not Crust Nor Crum Weary Of All, Shall Want Some.

Though I Am Not Naturally Honest, I Am Sometimes So By Chance.

But Now I Am Cabined, Cribbed, Confined, Bound In To Saucy Doubts And Fears.