Here Come The Lovers, Full Of Joy

The Barge She Sat In, Like A Burnish'd Throne, Burnt On The Water.

Fairies Use Flowers For Their Charactery.

But Most It Is Presumption In Us When The Help Of Heaven We Count The Act Of Men.

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

On Pain Of Death, No Person Be So Bold.