The Sweat Of Industry Would Dry And

With Mirth And Laughter Let Old Wrinkles Come.

I'll Go Find A Shadow, And Sigh Till He Come" (phebe)

Besides, Our Nearness To The King In Love Is Near The Hate Of Those Love Not The King.

O, Grief Hath Changed Me Since You Saw Me Last, And Careful Hours With Time's Deformed Hand Have Written Strange Defeatures In My Face. But Tell Me Yet, Dost Thou Not Know My Voice?

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.