Yesternight The Sun Went Hence, And Yet

Lust-bred Diseases Rot Thee.

Love Is A Growing, Or Full Constant Light; And His First Minute, After Noon, Is Night.

Between Cowardice And Despair, Valour Is Gendred.

I Wonder, By My Troth, What Thou And I Did, Till We Lov'd?

In Heaven It Is Always Autumn.