What Is Light, If Sylvia Be Not

While We Lie Tumbling In The Hay.

While He Was Drunk Asleep, Or In His Rage, Or In The Incestuous Pleasure Of His Bed.

Her Father Lov'd Me; Oft Invited Me; Still Question'd Me The Story Of My Life, From Year To Year, The Battles, Sieges, Fortunes, That I Have Pass'd.

Tis Ever Common That Men Are Merriest When They Are From Home.

Is Love A Tender Thing? It Is Too Rough, Too Rude, Too Boisterous, And It Pricks Like Thorn.