Quince Francis Flute, The Bellows-mender. Flute Here,

Of All Base Passions, Fear Is The Most Accursed.

Youth To Itself Rebels, Though None Else Near.

I Wasted Time, And Now Doth Time Waste Me; For Now Hath Time Made Me His Numbering Clock: My Thoughts Are Minutes; And With Sighs They Jar Their Watches On Unto Mine Eyes, The Outward Watch, Whereto My Finger, Like A Dial's Point, Is Pointing Still, In Cleansing Them From Tears. Now Sir, The Sound That Tells What Hour It Is Are Clamorous Goans, Which Strike Upon My Heart, Which Is The Bell: So Sighs And Tears And Groans Show Minutes, Times, And Hours.

Full Many A Glorious Morn I Have Seen Flatter The Mountain-tops With Sovereign Eye, Kissing With Golden Face The Meadows Green, Gilding Pale Streams With Heavenly Alchemy.

When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought I Summon Up Remembrance Of Things Past, I Sigh The Lack Of Many A Thing I Sought.