My Soul I'll Pour Into Thee.

The May-pole Is Up, Now Give Me The Cup; I'll Drink To The Garlands Around It; But First Unto Those Whose Hands Did Compose The Glory Of Flowers That Crown'd It.

So When Or You Or I Are Made A Fable, Song, Or Fleeting Shade; All Love, All Liking, All Delight Lies Drowned With Us In Endless Night. Then While Time Serves, And We Are But Decaying; Come, My Corinna, Come, Let's Go A Maying.

Fain Would I Kiss My Julia's Dainty Leg, Which Is As White And Hairless As An Egg.

My Soul I'll Pour Into Thee.

A Careless Shoe String, In Whose Tie I See A Wilde Civility.