The Attempt And Not The Deed Confounds

I Understand Thy Kisses, And Thou Mine, And That's A Feeling Disputation.

For Now I Stand As One Upon A Rock Environed With A Wilderness Of Sea, Who Marks The Waxing Tide Grow Wave By Wave, Expecting Ever When Some Envious Surge Will In His Brinish Bowels Swallow Him.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

It Is That Fery Person For All The Orld, As Just As You Will Desire; And Seven Hundred Pounds Of Moneys, And Gold, And Silver, Is Her Grandsire Upon His Death's-bed-got Deliver To A Joyful Resurrections!

Can One Desire Too Much Of A Good Thing?