They Say Miracles Are Past.

Speak, What Trade Art Thou? Why, Sir, A Carpenter. Where Is Thy Leather Apron And Thy Rule? What Does Thou With Thy Best Apparel On?

And Where Two Raging Fires Meet Together, They Do Consume The Thing That Feeds Their Fury.

To Be In Love, Where Scorn Is Bought With Groans; Coy Looks, With Heart-sore Sighs; One Fading Moment's Mirth

I Could A Tale Unfold Whose Lightest Word Would Harrow Up Thy Soul, Freeze Thy Young Blood, Make Thy Two Eyes Like Stars Start From Their Spheres, Thy Knotted And Combined Locks To Part, And Each Particular Hair To Stand On End Like Quills Upon The Fretful Porpentine. But This Eternal Blazon Must Not Be To Ears Of Flesh And Blood. List, List, O List!

Young Adam Cupid, He That Shot So Trim, When King Cophetua Loved The Beggar-maid!