When We Our Betters See Bearing Our

New Customs, Though They Be Never So Ridiculous (nay, Let Em Be Unmanly), Yet Are Followed.

Bid Me Discourse, I Will Enchant Thine Ear

So Many Miseries Have Craz'd My Voice, That My Woe-wearied Tongue Is Still And Mute.

On Pain Of Death, No Person Be So Bold.

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.