Fair Is The Kingcup That In Meadow

The Sun Was Set; The Night Came On Apace, And Falling Dews Bewet Around The Place; The Bat Takes Airy Rounds On Leathern Wings, And The Hoarse Owl His Woeful Dirges Sings.

To Shoot At Crows Is Powder Flung Away.

If The Heart Of A Man Is Depressed With Cares, The Mist Is Dispelled When A Woman Appears.

Envy Is A Kind Of Praise.

My Lodging Is On The Cold Ground, And Hard, Very Hard, Is My Fare, But That Which Grieves Me More Is The Coldness Of My Dear.