Roses At First Were White, Till Thy

Love Is A Circle That Doth Restless Move In The Same Sweet Eternity Of Love.

Tears Are The Noble Language Of The Eye.

What Is A Kiss? Why This, As Some Approve: The Sure, Sweet Cement, Glue, And Lime Of Love.

I Sing Of Brooks, Of Blossoms, Birds, And Bowers: Of April, May, Or June, And July Flowers. I Sing Of Maypoles, Hock-carts, Wassails, Wakes, Of Bridegrooms, Brides, And Of The Bridal Cakes.

I Dare Not Ask A Kiss; I Dare Not Beg A Smile; Lest Having That Or This, I Might Grow Proud The While. No, No, The Utmost Share Of My Desire Shall Be Only To Kiss That Air, That Lately Kissed Thee.