Thou Hast Nor Youth Nor Age But

I Cannot Tell What The Dickens His Name Is.

Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.

O Prosperina, For The Flowers Now That, Frighted, Thou Let'st Fall From Dis's Wagon; Daffodils, That Come Before The Swallow Dares, And Take The Winds Of March With Beauty; Violets Dim, But Sweeter Than The Lids Of Juno's Eyes Or Cytherea's Breath; Pale Primroses, That Die Unmarried, Ere They Can Behold Bright Phoebus In His Strength--a Malady Most Incident To Maids; Bold Oxlips And The Crown Imperial; Lilies Of All Kinds, The Flower-de-luce Being One.

Love Will Not Be Spurred To What It Loathes

Alas, How Love Can Trifle With Itself!