Summer's Lease Hath All Too Short A

But Since The Affairs Of Men Rests Still Incertain, Let's Reason With The Worst That May Befall.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still.

And Nature Must Obey Necessity.

Make Me A Willow Cabin At Your Gate, And Call Upon My Soul Within The House; Write Loyal Cantons Of Contemned Love And Sing Them Loud Even In The Dead Of Night.

The Will Is Deaf And Hears No Heedful Friends.