Pains Of Love Be Sweeter Far Than

Fool That I Was, Upon My Eagle's Wings I Bore This Wren, Till I Was Tired With Soaring, And Now He Mounts Above Me.

With How Much Ease Believe We What We Wish!

But Shakespeare's Magic Could Not Copied Be; Within That Circle None Durst Walk But He.

For All Have Not The Gift Of Martyrdom.

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.