O Sleep! O Gentle Sleep! Nature's Soft

Good Morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All In The Morn Betime, And I A Maid At Your Window, To Be Your Valentine.

The Brightness Of Her Cheek Would Shame Those Stars As Daylight Doth A Lamp; Her Eyes In Heaven Would Through The Airy Region Stream So Bright That Birds Would Sing, And Think It Were Not Night.

Where Every Something, Being Blent Together Turns To A Wild Of Nothing.

Golden Lads And Girls All Must As Chimney Sweepers Come To Dust.

She Dreams Of Him That Has Forgot Her Love; You Dote On Her That Cares Not For Your Love. 'tis Pity Love Should Be So Contrary; And Thinking Of It Makes Me Cry 'alas!